“Yes, I suppose so,” he murmured. Then they both looked at Frederick and he shifted uneasily. Answering the unspoken question in his face, Thompson explained. “You are becoming something of a celebrity. You will be going to dinners and teas. You must have proper apparel.” “But--” Frederick began, flushed and downcast. “You are now in the employ of the World Anti-Slavery Society,” Thompson went on, “our chief and most effective spokesman. In the interest of the entire cause you must make what the French call the good impression.” Now Frederick’s apprehensions began to mount. How could he go into English “society”? “Clothes do not make a gentleman,” he said, shaking his head violently. “I am a workingman. I will speak--yes--anywhere. I will tell the meaning of slavery, I will do anything, but I have no manners or ways for society.” Thompson regarded the young man a long moment before answering. “You are right, Frederick,” he said quietly. “Clothes do not make a gentleman. They only serve to render him less conspicuous.” He placed the tips of his fingers together and continued. “It will interest you to know that our word aristocracy comes from the Greek _aristokratia_, which is to say ‘the best workman.’” He leaned forward. “Someday we’ll recognize that. Meanwhile, Frederick Douglass, make no mistake about it--_you_ belong!” Came the evening when the swaying stagecoach drew up before the Golden Cross Hostelry on Charing Cross. The thick fog gave Frederick a feeling of unreality. He could see nothing but dim lights and looming shadows, but he was surrounded by a kind of muffled, intermittent rumbling. He stood in the drizzling rain listening. “Come,” said Thompson, taking him by the arm. “Let’s get inside. You’ll be drenched before you realize it.” Thompson lived in Dulwich, a suburb of London, but he was going to stay in town a few days until his friends had found suitable lodging and until, as he put it, chuckling, Frederick was “launched.” The next few days were busy ones. They found lodgings in Tavistock Square, not far from the Tavistock House, where Dickens lived for ten years. London would be Douglass’ headquarters. From there he would make trips throughout England and in the spring would go to Wales. He was waited upon by the British India Committee, the Society of Friends, the African Colonial Society and by a group working for the repeal of the Corn Laws. “It is the poor man’s fight,” they said. The newcomer listened carefully, read newspapers morning and night and asked questions. He spoke at the Freemason’s Hall, taking as his theme the right of every workman to have bread. Douglass spoke well, for he had only to step outside his rooms in London to see the pinch of poverty. Then, just as Thompson had warned him, the writers William and Mary Howitt sent a charming note asking him for a week-end in the country. Fortunately Frederick had managed to see a good tailor.