This also is history--farcical, immense, tragi-comic, but true. Know you the Totnam Cortrode? Here lives Maple, who sells washing appliances and tables of exotic legs. Here voyages also a Omnibuse Proletariat. That is to say for One penny. Two pence is the refined volupté of the Aristocrat. I am of the people. _Entre nous_ the connection is not desired by us. The people address to me epithets, entirely unprintable. I reply that they should wash. The situation is strained. Hence the Strike Docks and the Demonstrations Laborious. Upon the funeste tumbril of the Proletariat I take my seat. I demand air outside upon the roof. I will have all my penny. The tumbril advances. A man aged loses his equilibrium and deposits himself into my lap. Following the custom of the Brutal Londoner I demand the Devil where he shoves himself. He apologises supplicatorically. I grunt. Encore the tumbril shakes herself. I appropriate the desired seat of the old man. The conductaire cries to loud voice: "Fare, Guvnor." He produces one penny. A reminiscence phantasmal provokes itself. I beat him on the back. It is Sir Wollobie; the ex-Everything! Also the ex-Everything else! Figure you the situation! He clasps my hand. As a child clasps the hand of its nurse. He demands of me particular rensignments of my health. It is to him a matter important. Other time he regulated the health of forty-five millions. I riposte. I enquire of his liver--his pancreas, his abdomen. The sacred internals of Sir Wollobie! He has them all. And they all make him ill. He is very lonely. He speaks of his wife. There is no Lady Wollobie, but a woman in a flat in Bayswater who cries in her sleep for more curricles. He does not say this, but I understand. He derides the Council of the Indian Office. He imprecates the Government. He curses the journals. He has a clob. He curses that clob. Females with teeth monstrous explain to him the theory of Government. Men of long hair, the psychologues of the paint-pots, correct him tenderly, but from above. He has known of the actualities of life--Death, Power, Responsibility, Honour--the Good accomplished, the effacement of Wrong for forty years. There remains to him a seat in a penny 'bus. If I do not take him from that. I rap my heels on the knife-board. I sing "_tra la la_." I am also well disposed to larmes. He courbes himself underneath an ulstaire and he damns the fog to eternity. He wills not that I leave him. He desires that I come to dinner. I am grave. I think upon Lady Wollobie--shorn of chaprassies--at the Clob. Not in Bayswater. I accept. He will bore me affreusely, but ... I have taken his seat. He descends from the tumbril of his humiliation, and the street hawker rolls a barrow up his waistcoat. Then intervenes the fog--dense, impenetrable, hopeless, without end. It is because of the fog that there is a drop upon the end of my nose so chiselled.