268 THE OPEN AIR. 



hard seat would be nearly an easy-chair, were it not 

 for the damp smell of soaked overcoats, the ceaseless 

 rumble, and the knockings overhead outside. The 

 noise is immensely worse than the shaking or the 

 steamy atmosphere, the noise ground into the ears, 

 and wearying the mind to a state of drowsy narcotism 

 — you become chloroformed through the sense of 

 hearing, a condition of dreary resignation and uncom- 

 fortable ease. The illuminated shops seem to pass 

 like an endless window without division of doors ; 

 there are groups of people staring in at them in spite 

 of the rain ; ill- clad, half-starving people for the most 

 part ; the well-dressed hurry onwards ; they have 

 homes. A dull feeling of satisfaction creeps over you 

 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 



