“Ah! sir,” replied his dragoman, “it is too much to expect that the wonderful darkness which prevailed at the time of the Great Skirmish could endure; then, indeed, one could indulge the hope that the houses were all built by Wren, and the people all clean and beautiful. There is no poetry now.” “No!” said the Angel, sniffing, “but there is atmosphere, and it is not agreeable.” “Mankind, when herded together, _will_ smell,” answered his dragoman. “You cannot avoid it. What with old clothes, patchouli, petrol, fried fish and the fag, those five essentials of human life, the atmosphere of Turner and Corot are as nothing.” “But do you not run your towns to please yourselves?” said the Angel. “Oh, no, sir! The resistance would be dreadful. They run us. You see, they are so very big, and have such prestige. Besides,” he added, “even if we dared, we should not know how. For, though some great and good man once brought us plane-trees, we English are above getting the best out of life and its conditions, and despise light Frenchified taste. Notice the principle which governs this twenty-mile residential stretch. It was intended to be light, but how earnest it has all turned out! You can tell at a glance that these dwellings belong to the species ‘house’ and yet are individual houses, just as a man belongs to the species ‘man,’ and yet, as they say, has a soul of his own. This principle was introduced off the Avenue Road a few years before the Great Skirmish, and is now universal. Any person who lives in a house identical with another house is not known. Has anything heavier and more conscientious ever been seen?” “Does this principle also apply to the houses of the working-man?” inquired the Angel. “Hush, sir!” returned his dragoman looking round him nervously; “a dangerous word. The LABORIOUS dwell in palaces built after the design of an architect called Jerry, with communal kitchens and baths.” “Do they use them?” asked the Angel with some interest. “Not as yet, indeed,” replied his dragoman; “but I believe they are thinking of it. As you know, sir, it takes time to introduce a custom. Thirty years is but as yesterday.” “The Japanese wash daily,” mused the Angel.