I remember comparing notes with him as to what we looked forward to most on returning to England after a spell abroad. He said he “yearned for Curraghmore and Piccadilly, and after that devilled sole and brown bread and butter!” Most people will, I think, sympathise with Lord William in his longing for dear feverish London. She casts a spell over us all, and when we are exiles the remembrance of her brings on more fits of home-sickness than almost anything else, visions of Piccadilly come back to us as we remember her perhaps in the still early morning, when returning from balls and parties, the streets deserted by all save a few market carts filled with cabbages and other garden produce on the way to Covent Garden Market, a few lonesome souls sleeping on benches between the policeman’s “move on” visits; or perhaps the visions that come back to us are the evenings when the hurrying mass of people, the cabs and carriages were all shrouded in the blue-grey misty haze peculiar to London at night. We remember how we used to speculate on where they were all hurrying to, and fit histories to them, all so bent on tasting and testing life, often regardless of consequences. Each individual wearing that self-absorbed mind-your-own-business air, that is one of the fascinations of a great city. Lord William said he felt “beside” himself with joy when he again beheld the buses and heard the newspaper boys, and then “The Eton Boating Song,” so wrought with memories, played on a street organ filled him with an ecstasy of joy and sadness. He heard again the splash of the oars, saw again the pals of those old days whose names were at one time on everybody’s lips, now only little black splashes of ink on white paper.