absolutely right—it's impossible to forget here. I'd give all I know to live in that little cottage there in the hollow and remember the whole day long, the whole year round. But—" "But what?" She laid her hand on my arm again. "It's not to be thought of," said I. "But Cruikshank does it," said she. "Why shouldn't you? Is the cottage too small for your fifteen hundred a year? It has four rooms in it. We'd let you have it. You could make the garden instead of Cruikshank. Things would grow in that hollow—I'm sure they would. Why is it not to be thought of?" I had the temerity to lay my hand on hers, which still was resting on my arm. "Cruikshank does it," said I; "but then, have you forgotten—" "Forgotten what?" "'It is not good for man to live alone.'" She looked at me long and earnestly. I could see it in her eyes that she would offer to help me by every means within her power. But the futility of it must have been as apparent to her as it was to me, for though her eyes were full of eloquence, she said nothing. "Now do you understand why I live in London?" I continued. "Why I find company and humanity in crowds? Nearly every morning I sit in the Park and make up stories about the different people who pass by." Suddenly, again, I thought of my electrician and his little nursery maid. "Sometimes," I added, "they make them up for me. I have nothing to do but sit there and look on. It's better than theatres or restaurants. You mustn't think I find them the only resources of life in a city. Certainly restaurants are my theatres sometimes. The whole business is very much like a 'Punch and Judy' show. You can set it up at the corner of any street you like. When you come over to London—if you ever do—I'll take you round and show you some of my little theatres. They are all over the place. Charing Cross Gardens when the band plays—that's one of the best I know; or any A.B.C. shop at lunch time." I looked at her and laughed. I could not help it. Her face was so serious. "Well—now do you see?"
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