The youth went down Great Portland Street in such good humour with himself that he greatly desired to confer a benefit on somebody, to assist some one less fortunate. He looked about for an old woman selling matches, or for a boy shivering in the attempt to dispose of newspapers, and unable to find either, searched for a narrow side-street, where he might hope to have better success. Here again he received a check, for Devonshire Street and Weymouth Street and New Cavendish Street had disappeared, and in their place he found one broad, straight thoroughfare; he made inquiries and found it was called J & C. This he did not mind, and, indeed, it seemed an excellent arrangement when, anticipating that the next street would be J & D, he found this to be the case. But he still wanted to play the part of Lord Bountiful, and to satisfy his appetite for benevolence, and it pained him—although on broad grounds this should have furnished gratification—that up to the present he had discovered none who varied in apparent prosperity; not a high-level by any means, but, so far as he could perceive, an unmistakable level. Little variation existed in costume. “I hope you will excuse me—” he began. “What’s that?” “You must pardon me, please, for speaking, but—” “Whom do you want?” “I can scarcely give the name, but if you will permit me to explain, I think I could make it clear to you, sir.” “Don’t chatter,” interrupted the man curtly. “And don’t call me sir. You’re as good as I am.” “I don’t know,” retorted the youth, with spirit, “why you should think it necessary to mention the fact!” “Because you had apparently forgotten it.” “Don’t go for a moment. I only wish to ask one question. Where are the poor?” “Spell it!” The young man complied; the other shook his head. They took to the edge of the broad pavement; the centre appeared to be rigidly reserved for those who were youthful and walked with a certain briskness, whilst either side was used by elderly folk, and by those whose movements were deliberate. The young man gave further details. “I see what you mean now,” said the other. “There was a story about a man like yourself in one of the journals the other day. He, too, had been away in a distant colony for his health.” “One of the humorous journals?” “All of our journals are humorous. Any paragraph or column in which a pleasing strain of the ludicrous does not appear is blacked out by the censor. It isn’t always very clever, but it has to be as clever as can be reasonably expected for thirty-two and six a week.” “One pound twelve and sixpence?”