It may be imagined how anxious I was on meeting so rare a being to go more deeply into the matter and to find out on what such happiness reposed; but I did not know where to begin, because there are always some questions which men do not like asked, and unless one knows all about a man’s life one does not know what those questions are. Luckily for me, he volunteered. He told me that he was married and had eight children. He told me his wages, which were astonishingly low, his hours of labour, which were incredibly long, and he further told me that on reaching the yard that night he would have to walk a mile to his home. He said he liked this, because it made him sleep, and he added that in his profession the great difficulty was to get enough exercise. He told me how often a day off was allowed him and how greatly he enjoyed it. He told me the rent which he paid for his two rooms, which appeared to be one-third of his income, and congratulated himself upon the cheapness and commodity of the place; and so he went on talking as we rumbled down the King’s Road, going farther and farther and farther West. My day would end in a few hundred yards; his not for a mile or two more. Yet his content was far the greater, and it affected me, I am sorry to say, with wonder rather than with a similar emotion of repose and pleasure. The next part of his conversation discovered what you will often find in the conversation of contented men (or, rather, of partially contented men, for no other absolutely contented man have I ever met except this one), that is, a certain good-humoured contempt for those who grumble. He told me that the drivers of ’buses were never happy; they had all that life can give: high wages, fresh open-air work, the dignity of controlling horses, and, what is perhaps more important, ceaseless companionship, for not only had they the companionship of chance people who would come and sit on the front seats of the ’bus outside, but they could and did make appointments with friends who would come and ride some part of the way and talk to them. Then, again, as their work was more skilled, their tenure of it was more secure, nor were they constrained to shout “Liverpool Street” at the top of their voices for hours on end, nor to say “Benk, Benk, Benk” in imitation of the pom-pom. Nevertheless they grumbled. He was careful to tell me that they were not really unhappy. What he condemned in them was rather the habit and, as it were, the fashion of grumbling. It seemed as though no weather pleased them; it was always either too hot or too cold; they took no pleasure in the healthy English rain beating upon their faces, and warm spring days seemed to put them in a worse humour than ever. He condemned all this in drivers.