“Have you ever been in love?” I asked.     

       “Possibly,” he replied, carelessly.     

       “But devotedly, hopelessly, as a man who would sacrifice heaven for his mistress?”      

       “Haven't blown my brains out yet,” he answered.     

       “Ah, you have been successful; you have invariably brought your little affairs to a fortunate issue?”      

       “I don't know that I should call myself a great ladies' man.”      

       “Possibly you are engaged?” I suggested, remembering that I had heard that this operation has a singularly sedative effect upon the English.     

       “No,” he said, with an air of ending the discussion, “I am not.”      

       Again this “I am not,” followed by a compression of the lips and a cold glance into vacancy.     

       “Ah, he is a dolt; a lump of lead!” I said to myself, and I sighed to       think of the people I was leaving, the people of spirit, the people of wit. Little did I think how my opinion of my fellow-traveller would one day alter, how my heart would expand.     

       But now I had something else to catch my attention. I looked out of the window, and, behold, there was nothing to be seen but houses. Below the level of the railway line was spread a sea of dingy brick dwellings, all, save here and there a church-tower, of one uniform height and of one uniform ugliness. Against the houses nearest to the railway were plastered or propped, by way of decoration, vast colored testimonials to the soaps and meat extracts of the country. In lines through this prosaic landscape rose telegraph posts and signals, and trains bustled in every direction.     

       “Pardon me,” I said to my companion, “but I am new to this country. What city is this?”      

       “London,” said he.     

       London, the far-famed! So this was London. Much need to “paint it red,” as the English say of a frolic.     

       “Is it all like this?” I asked.     

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