All the blinds were suspiciously drawn down. After ringing the bell twice an aged housekeeper came to the door; the family had gone to town for the season. I turned away to a hotel, where the accommodation was moderate; but fortunately the charge was the same. On the Friday, back to town with an empty purse, I made my way to an office where I knew I could get the needful. Alas! the gentleman I wanted to see was out. For the first time in his life, I believe, Mr. W. was away—gone to the Handel Festival.’ ‘Well, you seem to have been rather unfortunate.’ ‘And oh, the terrors of that night! I could not get a wink of sleep. The room was so sultry and confined. I opened the window, and then the noise of cabs at all hours kept me awake. Then I got nervous, and wondered what I should do in case of a fire; and sleep that night was out of the question; in fact, I’ve been wonderfully seedy all the time I have been in town. But I have more to say if you care to listen.’ ‘Pray proceed,’ said Wentworth. ‘I am all attention.’ ‘Let me record two other experiences. I have a friend who keeps a boarding-house in a certain square not a hundred miles from Holborn. He had often asked me to stay a night with him; he could help me with materials for an article I wanted to write; I would spend my last night there. Of course, I found him out, and the house so full that any bed there was out of the question. One little incident in the course of my troubles is rather amusing and characteristic. A West-End swell lately forced himself on my acquaintance. His talk is all of lords and ladies and people in high life, in whom I take no interest whatever. I even am sick of the woeful tittle-tattle of the newspapers, and never read it. But I met my fine gentleman accidentally. He was delighted to see me, inquired most politely after the welfare of my family, hoped I would manage to run up to a certain fashionable exhibition—the most pleasant lounge in town of a summer evening—and then bade me good-morning as coolly as if he had never gone out of his way to beg me to make his house my home the next time I was in London. And this is London life, and a fair illustration of how a countryman gets on when there, and of the utter impossibility of accomplishing anything there in a reasonable time. It is wiser—better far—to stay at home and get your business done by writing. Londoners love writing. There is a difficulty I have with a limited liability company in a matter of five shillings, and we are as far from getting it settled as ever, though we have been corresponding on it for half a year. But London, with its worrying days and sleepless nights, is to be avoided by any who regards his health or temper or pocket. I have quite made up my mind that I will never visit London again—at any rate, not till the next time. And there is another thing that disgusted me. I was at a public dinner last night, and had to sit