“I would go further, sir,” returned his dragoman, “and say that the power of laughing at that which should make him sick distinguishes the Englishman from all other varieties of man except the negro. Kindly observe!” He rose, and taking the Angel by the waist, fox-trotted him among the little tables. “See!” he said, indicating the other supper-takers with a circular movement of his beard, “they are consumed with laughter. The habit of fox-trotting in the intervals of eating has been known ever since it was introduced by Americans a generation ago, at the beginning of the Great Skirmish, when that important people had as yet nothing else to do; but it still causes laughter in this country. A distressing custom,” he wheezed, as they resumed their seats, “for not only does it disturb the oyster, but it compels one to think lightly of the human species. Not that one requires much compulsion,” he added, “now that music-hall, cinema, and restaurant are conjoined. What a happy idea it was of Berlin’s, and how excellent for business! Kindly glance for a moment--but not more--at the left-hand stage.” The Angel turned his eyes towards a cinematograph film which was being displayed. He contemplated it for the moment without speaking. “I do not comprehend,” he said at last, “why the person with the arrested moustaches is hitting so many people with that sack of flour.” “To cause amusement, sir,” replied his dragoman. “Look at the laughing faces around you.” “But it is not funny,” said the Angel. “No, indeed,” returned his dragoman. “Be so good as to carry your eyes now to the stage on the right, but not for long. What do you see?” “I see a very red-nosed man beating a very white-nosed man about the body.” “It is a real scream, is it not?” “No,” said the Angel drily. “Does nothing else ever happen on these stages?” “Nothing. Stay! _Revues_ happen!” “What are _revues_?” asked the Angel. “Criticisms of life, sir, as it would be seen by persons inebriated on various intoxicants.” “They should be joyous.” “They are accounted so,” his dragoman replied; “but for my part, I prefer to criticise life for myself, especially when I am drunk.” “Are there no plays, no operas?” asked the Angel from behind his glass. “Not in the old and proper sense of these words. They disappeared towards the end of the Great Skirmish.” “What food for the mind is there, then?” asked the Angel, adding an oyster to his collection. “None in public, sir, for it is well recognised, and has been ever since those days, that laughter alone promotes business and removes the thought of death. You cannot recall, as I can, sir, the continual stream which used to issue from theatres, music-halls, and picture-palaces in the days of the Great Skirmish, nor the joviality of the Strand and the more expensive restaurants. I have often thought,” he added with a touch of philosophy, “what a height of civilisation we must have reached to go jesting, as we did, to the Great Unknown.”