as if they were made of some delicious creamy substance, and were going to overflow into the street; policemen in large capes, and if I may be allowed the expression, "helmetically" sealed from the wet, keeping order; draggled women on foot "moving" rapidly on. The fine ladies in their carriages moving on too--but not quite so fast. This Piccadillean view of the progress of civilisation suggested to me many serious reflections; among others, that if I intended to go to Cambridge House myself, the sooner I went to dress the better. Which way are we moving? I mused, as I made the smallest of white bows immediately over a pearl stud in my neck. I gave up the "history" of civilisation. I certainly can't call it "the progress" of civilisation; that does all very well for Pekin, not for London. Shall I do the Gibbon business, and call it "the decline and fall" of civilisation?--and I absently thrust two right-hand gloves into my pocket by mistake, and scrambling across the wet pavement into my brougham, drove in it the length of the file and arrived before I had settled this important question. While Lady Veriphast, having planted me _en tête-à-tête_ in a remote corner, was entertaining me with her accustomed vivacity, I am conscious of having gazed into those large swimming eyes with a vacant stare so utterly at variance with my usual animated expression, that she said at last, rather pettishly, "What _are_ you thinking about?" "Civilisation," I said, abruptly. "You mean Conventionalism," she replied; "have you come to the conclusion, as I have, that all conventionalism is vanity?" "No; only that it is 'vexation of spirit;' that is the part that belongs to us--we leave the 'vanity' to the women." "Dear me, I never heard you so solemn and profound before. Are you in love?" "No," I said; "I am thinking of writing a book, but I don't see my way to it." "And the subject is the Conventionalism which you call civilisation. Well, I don't wonder at your looking vacant. You are not quite up to it, Lord Frank. Why don't you write a novel?" "My imagination is too vivid, and would run away with me." "Nothing else would," she said, laughing; "but if you don't like fiction, you can always fall back upon fact; be the hero of your own romance, publish your diary, and call it 'The Experiences of a Product of the Highest State of Civilisation.' Thus you will be able to write about civilisation and yourself at the same time, which I am sure you will like. I want some tea, please; do you know you are rather dull to-night?" And Lady Veriphast walked me into the middle of the crowd, and abandoned me abruptly for somebody else, with whom she returned to her corner, and I went and had tea by myself.