The Open Air 



that you are at least in shelter; the rumble is a little 

 better than the wind and the rain and the puddles. 

 If the Greek sculptors were to come to life again and 

 cut us out in bas-relief for another Parthenon, they 

 would have to represent us shuffling along, heads 

 down and coat-tails flying, splash-splosh a nation of 

 umbrellas. 



Under a broad archway, gaily lighted, the broad 

 and happy way to a theatre, there is a small crowd 

 waiting, and among them two ladies, with their backs 

 to the photographs and bills, looking out into the 

 street. They stand side by side, evidently quite 

 oblivious and indifferent to the motley folk about 

 them, chatting and laughing, taking the wet and 

 windy wretchedness of the night as a joke. They 

 are both plump and rosy-cheeked, dark eyes gleaming 

 and red lips parted; both decidedly good-looking, 

 much too rosy and full-faced, too well fed and 

 comfortable to take a prize from Burne- Jones, very 

 worldly people in the roast-beef sense. Their faces 

 glow in the bright light merry sea coal-fire faces; 

 they have never turned their backs on the good 

 things of this life. "Never shut the door on good 

 fortune," as Queen Isabella of Spain says. Wind 

 and rain may howl and splash, but here are two 

 faces they never have touched rags and battered 

 shoes drift along the pavement no wet feet or 

 cold necks here. Best of all they glow with good 

 spirits, they laugh, they chat; they are full of 

 enjoyment, clothed thickly with health and happi- 

 ness, as their shoulders good wide shoulders are 

 thickly wrapped in warmest furs. The 'bus goes 

 on, and they are lost to view; if you came back 

 in an hour you would find them still there without 

 doubt still jolly, chatting, smiling, waiting perhaps 



254 



