A WET NIGHT IN LONDON. 269 



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 

 for the stage, but anyhow far removed, like the 

 goddesses on Olympus, from the splash and misery 

 of London. Drive on. 



The head of a great gray horse in a van drawn up 

 by the pavement, the head and neck stand out and 

 conquer the rain and misty dinginess by sheer force of 

 of beauty, sheer strength of character. He turns his 

 head — his neck forms a fine curve, his face is full of 

 intelligence, in spite of the half dim light and the 

 driving rain, of the thick atmosphere, and the black 

 hollow of the covered van behind, his head and neck 

 stand out, just as in old portraits the face is still 

 bright, though surrounded with crusted varnish. It 

 would be a glory to any man to paint him. Drive on. 



How strange the dim, uncertain faces of the crowd. 



