“If you was to order it now it would be ready when you come down.” “All right,” he said. Then, as she still lingered: “I think I’ll wash my hands if you don’t mind.” “What’ll you have to eat?” Of course! It was so obvious—he ought to have thought of that. What could he have? It would betray inexperience to ask what there was—a man of the world would know in an instant what his appetite desired. Wynne had often pictured himself ordering a dinner, but now the time had come he felt strangely unable to do so. His memory served him with a picture of the uncooked sirloin and the tomatoes, but it was unlikely they would oven this on his behalf. The need to answer being imperative, he ordered “A chop, please, and some potatoes.” After the departure of the landlady he cursed his woeful lack of imagination. He had dreamed to feast, as the old emperors, upon ortolans and the brains of peacocks, and instead he had ordered the very dish which, in the ordinary rotation of the home-menu, would have appeared on his father’s table that night. Before going downstairs Wynne decided very firmly what he would say when asked as to his choice of drink. He would order shandy-gaff, and he would name it familiarly as “shandy.” This resolve completed, he opened his suit case and set out his belongings in careless disorder. Beyond doubt it was very fine to be a free-lance and possess a room of one’s own in the heart of London. He took a pace or two up and down the floor and filled his lungs with air. The rumble of traffic and the long-sustained London note, made up of thousands of fine particles of sound, drifted to his ears. “Something like!” said Wynne. “This is something like!” He put his head out of the window and spoke again: “You silly old crowds, all hurrying along. You don’t know me—but one day you shall. Yes, I shall find out all your secrets, and you will come to me to disclose them. Oh! you silly, busy, hurrying old crowds, I’m getting ready for you. Why don’t you look up and see me? Don’t you want to? There’s no charge yet. Look while you have the chance, for later on I shall tip up your chins and hold your eyes whether you want me to or not.” But none was disposed to glance his way. The day’s work was done, and London emptying itself homeward. There were dinners, warm fires, and welcomes awaiting them, why should they waste a glance upon the white face of an anæmic boy who hung out over the sill of a three-shilling bedroom and blathered his foolish thoughts to the night.