So I went to London, where, of course, I had always meant to go sooner or later. I had heard and read a great deal about this place, but had no idea that it was so remarkable as it really is. Perhaps the most extraordinary of all things in London is passing millions of people every day of your life and not knowing a single one. My Aunt Augusta met me at Paddington, and we drove to her home, where I was to stop for the time being. Her name was Miss Augusta Medwin, and she lived in a place called Cornwall Residences and was an R.B.A. It was a huge house divided into flats, and her flat was the top one of all. She was an artist, and R.B.A. stands for Royal British Artist. She had a little place leading out of her flat on to the roof of the building. This was built specially for her. It looked out on to the whole of the top of London and was a studio. The Metropolitan Railway had a yard down below, where the engines got up steam before going to work in the mornings. It was, of course, a far more interesting spot than any I had ever yet met with. I had a little room in the flat, and my aunt had made it very nice and comfortable. But the engines always began to get up their steam at four o’clock in the morning, and it is a very noisy process, and it took me some time growing accustomed to the hissing noise, which was very loud. There is no real stillness and silence in London even in the most select districts. Not, I mean, like the country. My aunt had one servant called Jane. She had been married, but her husband had changed his mind and run away from her. She was old and grey and like a fowl, but very good-tempered. I told her about the engines and she said: “This is London.” My aunt painted very beautiful pictures in oil colours, and also made etchings of the most exquisite workmanship. She was made R.B.A. to reward her for her great genius in her art. She hung her pictures at exhibitions and was a well-known painter, though she told me that she did not make a great deal of money. I hoped that she would take at least half of my fifty pounds a year for letting me live with her, and assured her that I cared nothing for money; then she said we would look into that if I passed my examination. She was a good deal interested in me, and said that I had my dead mother’s eyes and artist’s hands. She was quite old herself, and might have been at least forty. She was not yet withered, like the very old. She wore double eyeglasses when she painted. Her expression was gloomy, but her eyes were blue and still bright. I found her very much more interesting to talk to than any other woman I had met; and I told her my great secret hope for the future. I said: