Harris told a sad history, as we walked, about a man he once knew, who is now in a home for harmless imbeciles. He said he recalled the story because it was on just such another night as this that he was walking with that man the very last time he ever saw the poor fellow. They were strolling down the Thames Embankment, Harris said, and the man frightened him then by persisting that he saw the statue of the Duke of Wellington at the corner of Westminster Bridge, when, as everybody knows, it stands in Piccadilly. It was at this exact instant that we came in sight of the first of these wooden copies. It occupied the centre of a small, railed-in square a little above us on the opposite side of the way. George suddenly stood still and leant against the wall of the quay. "What's the matter?" I said; "feeling giddy?" He said: "I do, a little. Let's rest here a moment." He stood there with his eyes glued to the thing. He said, speaking huskily: "Talking of statues, what always strikes me is how very much one statue is like another statue." Harris said: "I cannot agree with you there--pictures, if you like. Some pictures are very like other pictures, but with a statue there is always something distinctive. Take that statue we saw early in the evening," continued Harris, "before we went into the concert hall. It represented a man sitting on a horse. In Prague you will see other statues of men on horses, but nothing at all like that one." "Yes they are," said George; "they are all alike. It's always the same horse, and it's always the same man. They are all exactly alike. It's idiotic nonsense to say they are not." He appeared to be angry with Harris. "What makes you think so?" I asked. "What makes me think so?" retorted George, now turning upon me. "Why, look at that damned thing over there!" I said: "What damned thing?" "Why, that thing," said George; "look at it! There is the same horse with half a tail, standing on its hind legs; the same man without his hat; the same--" Harris said: "You are talking now about the statue we saw in the Ringplatz." "No, I'm not," replied George; "I'm talking about the statue over there." "What statue?" said Harris. George looked at Harris; but Harris is a man who might, with care, have been a fair amateur actor. His face merely expressed friendly sorrow, mingled with alarm. Next, George turned his gaze on me. I endeavoured, so far as lay with me, to copy Harris's expression, adding to it on my own account a touch of reproof. "Will you have a cab?" I said as kindly as I could to George. "I'll run and get one." "What the devil do I want with a cab?" he answered, ungraciously. "Can't you fellows understand a joke? It's like being out with a couple of confounded old women," saying which, he started off across the bridge, leaving us to follow. "I am so glad that was only a joke of yours," said Harris, on our overtaking him. "I knew a case of softening of the brain that began--"