He who stepped through the battered door in St. Andrew Street travelled fifteen hundred miles in a second. Without, the slaughter-house and slums—dull, drab Liverpool; within, the glorious East—strange dark faces of exotic beauty, a blaze of scarlet gowns and yellow gold. For the women were bedizened with much jewellery: rings shone on their fingers, barbaric bracelets on their arms, chains and corals dangled from their necks, heavy pendants from their ears, and on their blouses sparkled many trinkets and brooches. Their jet-black hair hung in two plaits over their shoulders, and in each plait was woven a cord to which were attached six or seven great gold medals, generally Continental coins of 100 francs, but often our own magnificent five-pound pieces. And everywhere children gambolled—pictures of health and happiness, fawn-like creatures whose scanty shifts scarcely concealed their lithe brown bodies. Centuries ago man’s inhumanity taught Gypsies the lesson that language is given them for the purpose of concealing their thoughts, and even now a Gypsy invitation, especially if it be pressing and cordial, often proves to have been a device for preventing a second visit. I was assured that carts had been ordered for seven o’clock to effect the removal of the band to two houses they had rented in Pitt Street. Wishing to see the flitting, I returned earlier than the time stated, found that they had departed at six, tracked them with difficulty, and overtook them, not in Pitt Street, but on the Landing-stage, awaiting the Birkenhead luggage-boat. At the head of the procession was a large tilted cart in which squatted all the women and children, from elderly and angular Mothers of Egypt to beautiful Vola, the chief’s daughter-in-law, carrying her little baby. Two waggons followed, loaded with luggage, over which, high piled, was the bedding, and on top of all, dressed in the costume of theatrical brigands, the black-bearded men carrying long staves elaborately decorated with silver. There were full forty souls in the party, but when the boat arrived at Birkenhead, Kola, the chief, held up the traffic by engaging the ticket-collector in an altercation as to the exact number. Since he spoke in Russian and the official in English, neither convinced the other. The chief maintained that there were only fourteen; the collector set the figure considerably higher, but as no two of his repeated attempts at enumeration agreed with one another, while the chiefs estimate never varied, Kola may be said to have had, on the whole, the best of the argument. At all events the management preferred giving way to being detained all night, and Uncle Kola triumphantly led his procession up the bridge.