But I could not so easily shake the dust of the Abbey from my feet. I felt as one of those wax effigies would feel could he come to life, and stepping from out of his glass case, take a walk to Charing Cross. Then a strange idea occurred. Suppose I _was_ one of them? It was possible, if the theory of a former existence holds water. I might be a Charles II, a Henry VII, a Nelson! On second thoughts, though, I am more inclined to class myself with the artistic fraternity--a Garrick, a Beaumont, or a Ben Jonson--"O, rare Ben Jonson!" Yes, I find in myself traits distinctly reminiscent of the poet who used his pen as Hogarth used his brush---- "That's the second time you done it, sir." Mrs. Darling's voice brought me back to the twentieth century with an unpleasant jar. "Done what?" I asked. "Run into somebody through not lookin' where yer goin'. That telegraph boy didn't 'arf size you up. I shouldn't like to repeat wot 'e said." "I wouldn't ask it of you," I hastened to assure her. She had come to a halt before the window of an A.B.C. shop. "Look!" she exclaimed, "_Crumpets!_ 'Ow funny!" I told her I didn't see the joke, and she said that came of my not keeping my ears open--the telegraph boy had referred to a certain person being "balmy on the crumpet!" I feigned unconsciousness of the deduction. There are occasions when Mrs. D.'s perverted sense of humour needs keeping in check, and to quote "Charley's Aunt," it was "such a damned silly joke". I am sorry to have to end my yarn on this prosaic note, but that is the way of things in an existence where the necessity to blow your nose or change your socks breaks in on the most exalted moments. Believe me, dear Agatha, Your devoted, GEORGE. CHAPTER III CARRINGTON MEWS, SHEPHERD MARKET, _24th September._ Dear Agatha,--I was glad to hear, by the way, that you had been incited to unearth Pepys from a neglected corner of your bookcase. The old chap's vitality is infectious. One can scarcely turn a leaf anywhere but one is interested, amused, or receives the benefit of a shock to one's sense of the proprieties. This morning I opened him haphazard and read, "So over the fields to Southwark. I spent half an hour in St. Mary Overy's Church, where are fine monuments of great antiquity". I took it as a leading, and this afternoon Mrs. Darling and I paid a visit to Southwark Cathedral. The building lies in a hollow, and as one goes down the steps to the churchyard one leaves behind the rumble of traffic on its way to London Bridge over the cobbles. Inside we found the length of the long narrow nave dim and grey, but in the neighbourhood of the clerestory a golden light diffused itself, falling in patches on the groined roof. At the tomb of John Gower, the poet, who died in 1408, we paused. It occurred to me that it might interest Mrs. D. to hear that it was not till his old age, when his hair was grey, that wearying of his solitary state, John Gower took a wife.