"Here I am, old dear," she exclaimed. "I left York simply _jammed_ in the wedge. Oh, isn't it fun? I never laughed so much. We never _can_ be serious with each other after this, can we?" St. Ives nodded. "I'll never forget Pontresina climbing the rail," she said. "I used to think him so haughty; now--" "Albemarle Road--don't you want Albemarle Road?" the conductress was asking me. She spoke very loudly. "Pontresina--I'm Pontresina," I answered. "This is Albemarle Road. If you're going on it'll be another penny," she insisted. I rose in bewilderment. St. Ives was looking at me while she knitted. I raised my hat to her and smiled. We had been such good friends all the evening--how could I ever forget it? But she did not smile; she only stared. She seemed to think I was mad. Macclesfield was reading his _Star_ just as if he had never hurled himself on to the top of the 'bus. The flapper was squinting at herself in a little pocket-mirror; she looked contemptuously at me as I passed. Old York was half asleep. One would think they had never been rushing about in that frantic General Post. And we were all inside the car again. It _was_ odd! * * * * * [Illustration: "THE BLOKE WOT PAINTED THAT KNEW 'OW TO DO A BIT O' FOOD 'OARDING, DIDN'T 'E?"] * * * * * 'TWAS FIFTY YEARS AGO. (_Lines suggested by an old Magazine._) Published the year I went to school-- The second of life's seven ages-- How fragrant of Victorian rule Are these forgotten pages! When meat and fruit were still uncanned; When good CHARLES DICKENS still was writing; And SWINBURNE'S poetry was banned As rather too exciting. No murmurs of impending strife Were heard, no dark suggestions hinted; Our novelists still looked on life Through spectacles rose-tinted; And Paris, in those giddy years, Still laughed at OFFENBACH and SCHNEIDER, Blind to the doom of blood and tears, With none to warn or guide her. The index and the authors' names, Their stories and their lucubrations, Recall old literary aims And faded reputations; We wonder at the influence That SALA'S florid periods had on His fellows, and the vogue immense Of versatile Miss BRADDON. And yet I read _Aurora Floyd_ In youth with rapture quite unholy-- Not in the way that I enjoyed Mince-pies or roly-poly; While "G.A.S." appeared to me Like a Leonid fresh from starland, Not the young lion that we see Portrayed in _Friendship's Garland_. And there are tinklings of the lute In orthodox decorous fashion, But altogether destitute Of "elemental" passion; And illustrations which refrain From all that verges on the shady, But glorify the whiskered swain, The lachrymose young lady.