Upon opening the street door he was pleased to find that it was beginning to rain. He went back, fetched his umbrella, opened it, and emerged holding the umbrella rather low in order to protect--his hat. Then he stepped out briskly, trying to think and to move naturally; but the terrible literalness of the streets troubled him. In such surroundings he felt more than ever the incongruity which under modern conditions, separates matter from spirit. To walk in the light of the gospel had hitherto seemed to him easy; but now to walk in his own light was difficult. He was getting along, however, and so far had not attracted attention. On the other side of the street went a whistling boy, casting down newspapers through area railings. As he passed he felt that the boy had become aware of him, for the whistling had stopped. A moment later from behind, from across the street, came the cry, ‘Hullo, old lamp-shade!’ Was that from the boy? Was it intended for him? And was it as a lighted scarecrow that the world was going to regard him? He did not turn to find out; he made no sign that he had heard; but passing a shop front he sidled, and tilting his umbrella took a look at himself. Yes, under the shade of the umbrella, it was painfully distinct. He lifted the umbrella away; it almost disappeared. That decided him. It was only humility, he told himself; he did not wish to be seen of men; he furled his umbrella, and stood with his best hat exposed to the rain. Cabs and taxis passed him; he could, of course, have taken one; but those dark interiors would make more show of him than an umbrella; a bus with its glass sides, or better still its top open to the sky, was what he now waited for. And then down came more rain, making a bus-top ridiculous. He screwed his courage up to the sticking point; after all, it must be done; he must test his public and find out if life--life on earth, life inside as well as outside a bus, life in a modern city--was possible. Round the corner came the right numbered motor-bus. As it drew up he had a cowardly sense of relief; there was no one on the top, and the inside seemed full. The conductor dispelled his hope. ‘Room for one,’ he said; and Mr. Trimblerigg got in. It was unfortunate; he had to go to the far end, where there was less light. An old lady, as he settled beside her, said to her companion, ‘I do believe the sun’s coming out!’ ‘It can’t: it’s raining too hard,’ was the reply. Before long he was aware that those opposite were studying him with curious gaze. Elderly gentlemen lowered their papers, wiped and refixed their glasses, but did not resume reading. Their eyes bulged a little as they tried to believe them. Mr. Trimblerigg grew irritated; he wished they would make up their minds and have done with it. Presently a woman, sitting opposite, with a bandaged infant in her arms, leaned forward and remarked confidentially: ‘So you’ve been ’aving it too, have yer?’