I saw the hackney coach of Charles James Fox trundle under the portico. Burke, of course, was there too, the practical, wise Burke; for here they conspired with the Coalition Whigs to hit at Pitt, whispering and plotting with the lovely Georgiana, third Duchess of Devonshire, who enjoyed placing her white finger into this political pie. There had been a tea-party at Boston. And the French Revolution was gathering like a storm to split them. Among these crumbling stones Georgiana must have heard of that scene, one of the most dramatic the House of Commons has ever witnessed, when these two, Fox and Burke, broke their long friendship in a thrilled hush, Fox with tears in his eyes and his voice breaking, Burke grim and firm, and the House of Commons looking on at a quarrel that never healed. George IV, as Prince of Wales, with his card-table fingers also in the Fox pie, and all the brains and elegance of that time, wits who have been forgotten, a few who live, laughter, music, and the flash of white shoulders, eyes above a fan.... What a procession! All this you could see in the dust of Devonshire House--two hundred years of it, duke succeeding duke; and all the time the new generations of wealth, power, and art moving up to that grey old portico. As I passed it late one night I wondered if there are spirits--a queer doubt to express to-day! If so, I am certain that on calm nights fit for a lady's walk Georgiana, third Duchess of Devonshire, must have visited the ruin, looking with very straight brows and considerable "tut-tutting" at a big board on which was printed: "The magnificent building to be erected on this site will include offices, restaurants, and flats." * * * Poor Georgiana! Time is a queer thing, and--you, in your time, would never have believed it, would you? About Homes in Bondage Do you wish to feel human emotion spring from inanimate things? Do you wish to meet ghosts? Then come with me to one of London's great furniture store-houses, in which a thousand homes lie piled to the roof, silent, sheeted, tomb-like. A store-man switches on a line of lights, and we see stretching to the distance great pyramids of household goods, whole homes of furniture, neatly stacked and carefully ticketed against the time when a man and a woman will come to claim them. Some of the pyramids suggest Park Lane, others suggest Clapham Common. Let us peep beneath this shroud, and what do we see: "Good morning, Mrs. Everyman, and what can I do for you? Kindly accept this cushion as a souvenir of your visit." There lies the gift cushion, there the once-so-loved instalment suite that was delivered in the plain van. Note the pictures by Watts, Rossetti, and others of the Victorians to whom the suburbs are so loyal. "Love's Awakening." Ah!