If he could only make up his mind to _not_ alighting at Chancery Lane, he would have two whole minutes for consideration. If British Museum he would have four. If Tottenham Court Road, six--and so on. For the time being he was a sort of monarch, in a small way, over Time and Space. He would go on to the Museum, at any rate. What little things life hangs on, sometimes! If he had foolishly got out at either Chancery Lane or British Museum, there either would have been no reason for writing this story; or, if written, it would have been quite different. For at the Museum Station a girl got into the carriage; and, passing him on her way to a central haven of rest, trod on his foot, with severity. It hurt, so palpably, that the girl begged his pardon. She was a nice girl, and sorry. He forgave her because she was a nice girl, with beautiful rows of teeth and merry eyebrows. He might have forgiven her if she had been a dowdy. But he liked forgiving those teeth, and those eyebrows. So when she sat down in the haven, close to his left shoulder, he wasn't sorry that his remark that _he_ ought to beg _her_ pardon, because it was all his fault for sticking out, overlapped her coming to an anchor. If it had been got through quicker, the incident would have been regarded as closed. As it was, the fag-end of it was unexhausted, and she didn't quite catch the whole. It was in no way unnatural that she should turn her head slightly, and say: "I beg your pardon." Absolute silence would have been almost discourteous, after plunging on to what might have been a bad corn. "I only meant it was my fault for jamming up the whole gangway." "Oh yes--but it was my fault all the same--for--for----" "Yes--I beg your pardon? You were going to say--for----?" "Well--I mean--for standing on it so long, then! If you had called out--but indeed I didn't think it was a foot. I thought it was something in the electricity." Two things were evident. One was that it was perfectly impossible to be stiff and stodgy over it, and not laugh out. The other, the obvious absurdity of imputing any sort of motive to the serene frankness and absolute candour of the speaker. Any sort of motive--"of _that_ sort"--said he to himself, without further analysis. He threw himself into the laugh, without attempting any. It disposed of the discussion of the subject, but left matters so that stolid silence would have been priggish. It seemed to him that not to say another word would almost have amounted to an insinuation against the eyebrows and the teeth. He would say one--a most impersonal one. "Do they stop at Bond Street?" "Do you want to stop at Bond Street?" "Not at all. I don't care where I stop. I think I meant--is there a station at Bond Street?" "The station wasn't opened at first. But it's open now."