Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

The Storm

of London

THE STORM OF LONDON

KINDLY READ THESE REVIEWS

“‘Clothes,’ said Carlyle, ‘gave us individuality, distinctions, social polity; Clothes have made men of us; they are threatening to make Clothes-screens of us.’ This truth has been developed in an audacious manner by the author, who is not lacking in sarcasm and humour, and in a lucky moment of inspiration he has produced a book which will find hosts of readers for its originality, will be a topic of the moment for its daring, and will demand more permanent recognition for the truths which it unveils.”—St James’s Gazette.

“A book which is as amusing as it is audacious in its pictures of Society compelled to adopt the primitive attire of an Edenic age.”—Truth.

“London is turned into a huge Eden peopled with Adams and Eves in all the pristine simplicity of the altogether nude.”—Aberdeen Journal.

“Any amount of wit and literary skill ... the audacity of such a literary enterprise.”—Scotsman.

“A perfect saturnalia of nudity.”—Glasgow Herald.

“Everybody should read this uncommon and curiously persuasive fiction, that by the aid of realism, humour, and of wistful fancy, conveys an impression not likely to be quickly lost.”—Dundee Advertiser.

“Clever work.”—Times. (First Notice.)

“Daringly original.”—Outlook. (First Notice.)

“The author is at once bold and restrained in his picture of a London entirely deprived of clothes.”—T. P.’s Weekly.

“A daring idea ... a book which should have many readers.”—Daily Mirror.

“The shocks and complications that ensue should appeal to all lovers of fiction.”—Pall Mall Gazette. (First Notice.)

“The author has written an extraordinary book, daring and remarkable.”—Daily Express.

“A daring theme treated with admirable discretion. The story is singularly well told.”—Birmingham Gazette.

“Everybody is in a state of nudity, and the developments are interesting as all England is in the same interesting predicament. The book is distinctly peculiar, and the writer may be congratulated on his development of Carlyle’s speculations upon the state of Society rendered clothesless.”—Bristol Times & Mirror.

“Truly original and amusing.”—Bookseller.

“Very clever; smartly conceived and ably written.”—Western Daily Mercury.

“A clever variation of the theme of Sartor Resartus.”—Bystander.

“We have seldom perused a more fascinating book; a most daring idea, most capably worked out. It is a book that no one should miss.”—Varsity.

“The idea is certainly original, the book is selling wildly, critics praise it ... one of the books of the season.”—Hearth & Home.

JOHN LONG, Publisher, London

The
Storm of London
a Social Rhapsody

By

F. Dickberry

“Clothes gave us individuality, distinctions, social polity; Clothes have made men of us; they are threatening to make Clothes-screens of us.”—Carlyle’s Sartor Resartus.

SEVENTH EDITION

London

John Long

13 & 14 Norris Street, Haymarket

[All Rights Reserved]

First published in 1904

Dedicated

TO

M. E. H.

THE STORM OF LONDON

CHAPTER I

The Earl of Somerville was coming out of the Agricultural Hall and just stepping into his brougham, when a few drops of rain began to fall and a distant clap of thunder was heard. But it would no doubt be over in a few minutes; only a passing shower which would dispel the clouds, clear the leaden atmosphere, and in no way interfere with the midnight picnic to which Lord Somerville was going.

The day had been oppressively hot, and although it was only the second of May, one might have easily believed it to be the month of July. It was fortunate, for several entertainments were organised in that early period of the London Season—theatricals and bazaars, private and public, were announced for every day of the first weeks in May, for the benefit of soldiers’ widows, East-End sufferers and West-End vanities. In fact, never had Londoners’ hearts beaten more passionately for the sorrows and miseries of their fellow-creatures than at the present moment; and it would have been a pity had the charitable efforts of Society leaders been chilled by cutting east winds or drenching downpours of rain. The picnic to which the Earl was going, was to be held in Richmond Park, by torchlight, between midnight and the early hours of the morning. All Society was to be there. The Duchess of Southdown was to take a prominent part in the entertainment. Object lessons in rat catching were to be the chief attraction, as fashionable women had been chosen to take the parts of the rats, and to be chased, hunted, and finally caught by smart men of Society. Great fun was expected from this novel game, and the Upper Ten looked forward to that picnic with excitement. Before this nocturnal episode, there was to be a Tournament at Islington’s Agricultural Hall. “London, by Day and by Night,” was to be represented, in all its graphic aspects, by amateur artists of the Upper Ten, who were always ready to give their services for such a good cause as the S.P.G. But then Society is invariably ready to enter the lists where combatants fight for a noble cause, and it is never seen to shirk ridicule or notoriety, but on the contrary to expose the inefficiencies of its members to the gaping eyes of an ignorant public.

“By God!” exclaimed Lord Somerville as he leaned back on the cushions of his brougham, “I never realised the brutal ferocity of London life until I saw its nocturnal Bacchanals synthesised within so many square feet.”

He passed in review, in his mind’s eye, what he had seen:—Lady Carlton in the leading part of the wildest of street rovers, cigarette in her mouth, reeling from one side of the pavement to the other, nudging this one, thrusting her cigarette under the nose of another, pulling the beard of a stolid policeman, vociferating at the cab drivers. Lord Somerville had seen a good deal of what these women were trying to impersonate, but he never remembered having blushed so deeply, nor of having been so conscious of shame, as he felt that night. But this was only the beginning of the show. The last tableau was most striking. The front of the houses, represented by painted scenery, suddenly rolled off as by enchantment, and there, in view of a breathless public, were to be seen the interiors of gambling houses, massage establishments, night clubs—you can guess the rest! This final scene was all pantomimic, and although not one word was spoken, still, the despair of the man who sees his gold raked away on the green baize, the heartrending bargains of human flesh for a few hours of oblivion, were vivid pictures which left very few shreds of illusions in the minds of a dumbfounded audience. Then came the grand finale of hurry and skurry between the police and the gamblers and night revellers of all sorts; and this was a triumph of mise-en-scène and animation. To make it still more realistic, the Countess of Lundy had elected to appear in a night wrap, as two constables made a raid on the so-called massage establishment. But what a night wrap! The Earl smiled as he recalled the masterpiece in which Doucet of Paris had surpassed himself, revealing with subtle suggestiveness the lissome shape of arms and legs, and full curves of the breast through a foam of white lace and chiffon. As he sat in the darkness of his brougham, he closed his eyes and saw the Countess as she had stood in front of the footlights, unblushingly courting the approval of her public; and he still heard in his ears the furious applause of London Society gathered that night in Islington Hall. What had most struck this leader of fashion was the total ignorance in which one class of well-fed, well-protected human beings lived of all miseries that unshielded thousands have to bear. He thought of the many women on whom he daily called, dined with, joked with; how many possessed that ferocious glance of the pleasure-seeker, the audacious stare of the flesh hunter; but he had never noticed in any of these fearless women of his world the slightest slackening of tyranny, nor had he ever noticed, for one moment even, the pathetic humility of the hunted-down street angler, which is after all her one redeeming feature in that erotic tragedy.

Evidently the performance had been a decided success, and would doubtless be a pecuniary triumph. The Bishop of Sunbury, seated near the Earl at the show, had largely expatiated on the good of rummaging into the puddle of London sewers, as he called it in his clerical language. It was by diving deep into the mud that one could drag out one’s erring brothers and sisters, and by bringing London face to face with its social problems one was able to grapple with the enemy—sin. At least, so thought the Bishop, and he endeavoured to persuade the Earl, which was a more difficult task than he believed. The prelate, holding Lord Somerville by one of his waistcoat buttons, had tried to make him appreciate Society’s unselfishness. “My dear Lord Somerville, we hear all about the frivolity of our privileged classes; much is said against them—too much, I fear, is written against the callousness of fashionable women; but I assure you, it is unjust. Many of these sisters of ours, who have to-night moved the public to enthusiasm, have themselves their burden to bear, and many have wept bitter tears over some lost one in Africa. Well, to quote one of them: as you know, the Countess of Lundy—who personified the matron of one of these disgraceful establishments—has last week lost her cherished brother (poor fellow, he died of wounds); but there you see her at her post of duty.”

“More shame on her,” had murmured the Earl, but the Bishop did not hear, or would not, and had walked away.

“By God!”—and the Earl brought down his fist on his knee—“these women have made me see to what depth a woman can sink. And I am going to another of these exhibitions—I am heartily sick of it all.” As he was putting down a window to tell his coachman to turn back to Selby House, the brougham suddenly stopped, and a torrent of rain came through the open window.

“By Jove, Marshall, it is pouring.”

“My lord, I cannot get along. We’ve reached Barnes, but the wind and rain is that strong, the ’orses won’t face it.”

“Turn back by all means. The picnic could not take place in such a storm.” And he closed the window, laughing heartily at Society’s disappointment.

“Well, they are defrauded of their new game, and I am spared another display of female degradation.”

Whether it was owing to the violence of the storm, or to the morbidness into which the last performance had thrown him, is difficult to tell, but Lord Somerville was in a despondent mood and on the brink of mental collapse, and as they are wont in such cases, visions of his past life kept passing to and fro before his half-closed eyes. He was going home! In any case it was better than this infernal comedy of fun and pleasure which invariably ended in gloom and disgust. His home was loneliness made noisy. He lived alone in that palatial mansion in Mayfair; but solitary his life had not been, since his father had left him heir to all sorts of properties, privileges and prejudices. His house had ever since been invaded by men and women of all descriptions. Some were morning callers, some afternoon ones; these were the dowagers and respectable members of the Upper Ten who accepted his invitations to a cup of tea, and made it a pretext to submit to his inspection some human goods for sale. The others were night visitors, and easily dealt with, for their business was direct and personal. Men found him unsatisfactory, for he objected to being made use of, was inaccessible to flattery, and steadily rebuked all attempts at familiarity. He never showed himself ungallant towards the fair sex, but on the contrary was liberal and even grateful for all he received; in fact he was thoroughly just and business-like in the market-place of life, and treated his visitors well, whether they were guests from 10 a.m. to 8 p.m., or carousers from 10 p.m. to 8 a.m. One thing he strongly disliked, that was any man or woman peeping at a corner of his heart. He often thought he had none, for it had never yet been in request in all his business transactions with Society. Although he had paddled in all the filthy sewers of London and foreign capitals, he somehow had a knack of brushing himself clean of all outward grime; but what he never had been able to get rid of was a nasty flavour which clung to his lips, and which no woman’s kiss could ever take away, nor any Havana cigar dispel. That mephitic taste of life was always on his lips, and to-night it was more deadly bitter than ever. Perhaps the flavour became more noxious as before his mind’s eye passed the vision of Gwendolen Towerbridge, the famous Society beauty. Not only did he thoroughly dislike the girl, but his pride was sorely wounded at having been caught by her. Yes, he was engaged—what the world called engaged—to her. How did it happen? Ah! Few men could really tell how they had been captured. A supper, the top of a coach when returning late from the races; sometimes even less than that: a glass of champagne too many, or a bodice cut too low. These certainly were not important primal causes, but they often were found to be at the fountain-head of many family disasters. The women he had known were divided into two classes: the one that had run the social race, won the prize, and who certainly looked the worse for the course, mentally sweating, and in dire need of a vigorous sponge down; and the other that started for the post, all aglow with the desire to win at any cost and whatever the means, foul or fair, for a little cheating was encouraged, and often practised, on the Turf.

How many more seasons would he have to stand there and watch the ebb and flow of the feminine tide? He had for such a long time felt on his brow the breath of the mare as she galloped past him; and he had too often heard the feverish snort of the winner as she came back, led by her master’s groom. He knew no others. Perhaps a country lass, purely brought up by Christian parents, would modestly wait on a stile until she was won; but that girl would have no repartie, and would look mystified at a problem play. No doubt, in the suburbs there existed women whose sole ambition was to help a life companion in the search of true happiness, who padded the monotonous life of some City clerk who regularly came back by the 6.15 train, bringing home Tit-Bits for the evening recreation, and Home Chat for household requirements. Bah! that woman never could analyse the psychology of cookery, and besides, she was not a lady. He was an epicure in the culinary art, and thirsted for something he had not yet met with: a lady who would be a perfect woman. Then came the war; and he longed to escape the routine of London life and Gwendolen’s incessant requests for presents: he started for South Africa, hoping to lose there the nasty taste that was forever on his lips. Gwendolen soon followed, escorted by some of her friends and their numerous trunks. New frocks were shaken out, bonnets were twisted back into their original shapes, and an improvised season was inaugurated in one of the South African towns, to the utter disgust of her fiancé, who, having been wounded, had the misfortune of seeing her parade daily round his bed. The sights he witnessed sickened him unto death; the amalgam of frivolity and callousness seemed to him more irrelevant in that new country, and the physical excitement and interest of danger having worn itself off, he very soon realised that the old game of war must necessarily be played out in a civilisation that boasts of commercial supremacy, and whose scientific discoveries are daily endeavouring to bring nations nearer to one another. He returned to England on sick leave, more embittered than heretofore with Gwendolen, London, and himself. He frequently sat at twilight in his large library at Selby House, wondering whether this was all a fellow could do with his life, and whether the other side was not more entertaining than this rotten old stage? To-night, as he drove in his carriage, listening to the crashing of the thunder, every event of his life came back to him in strong relief and vivid colours, and the prospect of joining in holy matrimony with Gwendolen seemed more than he could bear. Perhaps the taste of death that he so nearly met with in Africa came to him at this hour of night, when all the elements were at war against man; and he came to the conclusion that he was not obliged to submit to life’s platitudes any longer. A gentleman should always quit a card table when he has been cheated. Life had cheated him, and he resolved to leave life. The other side of Acheron could not be a worse fraud than this; besides, he knew all about this world, there was nothing that could astonish him any more, nor keep his attention riveted for more than five minutes. Why not try the experiment? If it were complete oblivion, so much the better, he did not object to a long sleep out of which he would never wake. If it were, as so many declared, eternal punishment—well, the retribution could never, in all its black horror, be any worse than the gnawing heartache of the life in which we were chained.

The brougham rolled on, and very soon Lord Somerville knew he was in the heart of London. The streets were flooded, passengers were rushing along, in vain trying to get into omnibuses or hansoms; shouting, whistling, rent the damp atmosphere, competing with claps of thunder which at times alarmed the inhabitants, especially when the electric lights suddenly went out and Londoners were plunged for a few minutes into utter darkness. Lord Somerville could not remember having ever witnessed such a thunderstorm in town; still, he welcomed its magnitude with joy, for it was the proper accompaniment to his frenzy against an inadequate state of Society. The wheels turned the corner of Piccadilly and Park Lane, not without risk, for the obscurity was dangerous, and in a few seconds the carriage halted before his stately mansion; he opened the door, jumped out, and went into the house without turning round to give orders for next day to his coachman. This seemed peculiar to the servant, as he knew my lord to be very methodical in all that concerned his household.

The Earl entered his library, and after lighting a few electric lights, which were only now throwing a dim and lurid light into the large room, he sank down into a huge armchair. It was very quiet in that room; double doors and double windows shut out the noise of the splashing rain against the window-panes, the thunder even was less violent in this well-padded room, and the lightning could not pierce through the shutters and the thick brocaded draperies. After the fracas of the streets, it seemed to him as if he had already entered the Valley of Death as he sat in this silent place. The picture of his late father was hanging on the panel in front of him, and he looked at it for a considerable time. What could that face tell him at this critical hour, when for long years of his time he had never found one convincing argument with which to enlighten his son on all the grave problems of existence? It was always the same answers to the same inquiries: “My boy, others have gone through life besides yourself, and found it no worse than I have. Don’t think too hard, leave that to those who have to use their brains for a livelihood. You have a bed ready made to lie on, do not complain that it is too soft; but do not forget that you are a gentleman, and that when you have passed a few turnpikes of life—let us say, Eton, Oxford, the War or the Foreign Office—you can do whatever you like, for you are then innocuous; and no one, not even the most Argus-eyed dowager, will consider you dangerous, however wild your mode of life may be. My advice to you is, never fall into the clutches of any woman; to my mind the sex is divided into two dangerous species: the one that kill you before they bore you, the other that bore you before they kill you. But in either way you are a doomed man; though for myself I should prefer being killed to being bored—and as you know, I chose the former.”

Was this all that the aristocratic shape framed in front of him could tell him? It was not enough. He was too robust to be killed by the London Hetaires, and too fastidious to allow himself to be bored by the other species. He listened, but no sound came from the outside; the walls were too thick, the draperies too rich to allow any fracas to disturb the owner of that dwelling. He was hermetically shut out from every outward commotion, and might have lived in a vault. Was not that an image of his privileged life? All things had been so ordained and smoothed down in his easy existence that he could see nothing beyond his own direct surroundings, and could never penetrate into another heart, nor allow anyone to hear the throbs of his own heart. That was called the privilege of the well-bred, and it was all that generations before him had done for his welfare: a double-windowed house and a well-padded life, out of which he never could step. There were barriers at every corner of the road in which he had walked. Harrow, Oxford, the Guards, Downing Street, watched him, reminding him, by the way, that he could prance, kick, roll, do anything he had a mind to, within his boundary; and he heard that haunting whisper in his wearied ears that, however low he sank—he was a gentleman. But outside the boundary was a world called life, with a real, throbbing, howling humanity, a pushing and elbowing crowd with which he evidently had nothing to do; out there he had no business, for over there people answered for themselves, were responsible for their own actions, and he would no doubt fare badly were he to push and elbow for his own sake, independently of all the privileged institutions that propped him up through life. He suddenly remembered that next day there was a Levee, and that he was to be there. No, he would not go, he would escape for once, and for good and all, these recurring functions of social London which seemed to narrow the horizon of life. The best was to make a suitable exit and bring down the curtain on a Mayfair episode; it would puzzle, interest, amuse half of London for the inside of a week, and it would be over. He got up and went to a large bureau that stood in the middle of the room, and began to open drawer after drawer; he brought out some business papers, laid them carefully on the bureau, pulled out bundles of letters, read a few, burnt a great many. Amongst all the correspondence he came across there was not one note from Gwendolen; she did not write, she sent wires about anything, for an appointment at Ranelagh, a bracelet she had seen at Hancock’s, or some more trifling matter; and even then, she hardly sat down to pen these cursory remarks; she sent her wires when at breakfast, close to the dish of fried bacon, at lunch, at tea, on the corner of the silver tray. He opened another drawer and took out a revolver; it was loaded, and he examined it minutely. How long had it been in that drawer and when had he loaded it? He could not recall when last he had seen the arm. He slowly lifted it to his temple and pulled the trigger, as a violent clap of thunder shook the house to its very foundation, causing the electric lights to go out. Lord Somerville fell heavily on the Turkish carpet.

CHAPTER II

Lionel Somerville woke at 8 a.m. in the freshest of spirits. All the frenzy of the night before had vanished, and as he lay on his bed, smiling, he tried to think over what had happened.

“Did I not kill myself last night? Anyway, I did not succeed, or perhaps it was all a delusion! I must have been in a bad way. It is that infernal wound that troubles me; I have never been quite myself since I came home.—Well! what is the matter with this place?—Where are the curtains, the carpet?” Sitting up in his bed he stared all round. “And the blankets, sheets—oh! my shirt is gone!” And as he jumped up from the bed on to the bare floor, he stood as the Almighty had made him. He rushed to the window, saw the streets empty, the doors of all the houses closed, and no one going in or out of them. After staring out of the window he spotted but one boy coming along leisurely on his tricycle cart, the butcher’s boy no doubt; a fit of laughter seized him, followed by hilarious convulsions, as he saw the water-cart coming across the square, with its street Neptune indolently reclining on the seat.

“This is funny! What the devil does it mean? Have these people gone clean mad? Why does not the police stop them?”

Lionel left the window and rang the bell. A few seconds after there was a gentle knock at the door.

“Yes, my lord.” It was the suave voice of Temple, my lord’s faithful valet.

“I say, Temple”—Lionel spoke through the door—“what’s the meaning of all this?”

“I cannot tell, my lord. Your lordship’s bathroom is ready, and breakfast is on the table.”

“You must be mad, Temple! How am I to get out of this room without my clothes? Bring in something—anything—a wrap of some sort, a bath-rug.”

“Not one to be found, my lord, and all the shops are closed.”

“How are you clad, Temple?”

“I’ve nothing on, my lord, and Willows, Mr Jacques, are all in the same condition. But I can assure your lordship that the morning is very hot.”

“And you think that sufficient, do you? Well, I don’t! I am blowed if I can make this out, or if I know what I am going to do. Bring me a tub, a large can of hot water, and later on bring me a tray with a couple of eggs and tea. I am famished!”

Footsteps retreated; Lionel walked round and round his spacious bedroom. Everything was in its usual place as far as furniture went, but there was not a vestige of drapery or carpeting; the cushions had disappeared, and only the down lay on the floor; the chairs, easy fauteuils, the couch were despoiled of all covering and showed their bare construction of wood and cane-work. The bed was a simple pallet, the rugs had vanished. Lionel entered his dressing-room, the cupboards were open, and empty, when yesterday they had been crammed with all his clothes. The drawers were hanging out of their chest—empty; shirts, flannels, silk pyjamas, neckties, waistcoats, all the arsenal of a young man about town had dissolved into thin air. This was more than strange, and the Earl became more and more amazed as he went on opening boxes, baskets, and gaping at the empty receptacles. He again looked out of the window—his dressing-room had a full view of Grosvenor Square—and saw many more boys on tricycle carts; several satyr-milkmen were rattling their cans down the fashionable areas, and the water-cart went on slowly spouting its L.C.C. Niagara over dusty roads. The effect was decidedly comical. He came back to his bedroom, and once more looked out of the window. Looking up at the opposite house he saw a form passing to and fro. That was Lady Vera’s house. Could it be she? He smiled. It might be the maid. Who knows? There were few of his lady friends he would recognise again in this new garb. After his tub and breakfast he felt in buoyant spirits and physically fit, although he could not quite account for this new mood of his, for nothing had altered in his life. He gave a side glance at himself in the cheval-glass; he was always the Earl of Somerville, heir to vast riches, engaged to Gwendolen Towerbridge, and this joke would pass. It was perhaps the new trick of some gang of thieves, whom the police would be able to catch in a few days. The thing to find out was whether it was the same all over London. Temple told Lord Somerville, as he brought the breakfast tray to the door, that the areas down the streets and the square were a bevy of buzzing gossipers. Admiral B., who lived two doors off, was in the same plight, and was using strong language to his poor wife; and as to Field-Marshal W., whose house was in the square, he was beside himself, had howled at his man for his pyjamas and sent the fellow rolling down the passage for appearing in his presence in an Adamitic vestment. Temple thought this very unjust, as the Field-Marshal was in the same dilemma; but then Temple had no sense of the fitness of things, and certainly had no sense of humour, as he came to ask his master what were his orders for Marshall, the coachman. Lionel naturally sent Marshall to the devil.

“Does he think I am going to drive in an open Victoria as I am, with him on the box as he is?” And he raved at the poor valet, and asked him what they all felt in the housekeeper’s room. To which Temple replied, that the men did not so much mind, and that the women would get used to it. They had all their work cut out for them, and no time to think about difficult problems. Evidently it was different with them, and the Earl dropped the subject, inquiring whether the Times had come. But the postman had not yet arrived.

“What on earth can I do?” murmured Lionel. Then he thought of sending Temple to get him a pile of new French novels to while away the tedious hours. By the way, he thought suddenly, he would like to know something definite about last night’s adventure; he did not like to tell his man about his foolish attempt, but if he had seen the revolver on the carpet, he was prepared to give him some sort of explanation. Temple came back saying that every book had disappeared, and gave a graphic description of what was once the library of my lord. Lionel timidly inquired if he had not noticed anything peculiar on the floor, nor any stray object lying about? No, Temple had seen nothing except the total disappearance of all draperies, chair coverings, carpets, books, etc. There was nothing on the floor, only a little more dust than before in front of the writing-desk. This satisfied Lionel, who made up his mind that the whole thing was the effect of his own imagination, very probably occasioned by this miserable wound which at times was a great worry to him; and he settled down to forget the past and to solve the present in trying to explain this strange event. But in vain did he endeavour to do so, his eyes persistently went back to the window, and he constantly got up to watch the opposite house and the few strollers that ventured out; of course they were all servants who so immodestly exposed themselves to his investigation, still it amused him much more to watch the street than to ponder these grave questions.

“Well, I think I was a damned fool last night, provided I did such a foolish thing as to try and blow my brains out. This is worth living for, and I have not been amused for many years as I am now. It must have something to do with last night’s storm. If this is going to last, I suppose the old fellows at the Royal Institute will make it their business to ponder this stupendous phenomenon.”

Temple brought the luncheon tray about 1.30; only a couple of kidneys, a glass of Apollinaris water; it would be sufficient for that day, as he could not get out that afternoon and have a ride. Then more thinking, with as little attention as before. After that, tea with a bit of toast and no butter, and more thinking, interrupted at times by sudden glances through the window. Temple came once or twice to his master’s door with all the news that was afloat in the areas, butlers’ pantries, saddle-rooms, and although this gossip originated on the backstairs, it was welcomed by the heir of great estates, for, at this moment he could get no direct information, and what his valet brought him was as good as he could ever get. The valet had reminded my lord that to-day was the Levee, which the latter was to attend. This amused him very much, for was it likely that the Admiral, the Field-Marshal, the latest V.C. would ever venture beyond their bed-rug—oh! that even was gone—to go and meet their ruler in their skins? No, these things were impossible, and the structure of Society would soon crumble to ashes if one man unadorned was to meet another man unclad. Of course Lord Somerville was very anxious to know whether all London was in the same condition, to which the faithful valet replied, that he had it from the milkman that Belgravia was as silent as a tomb, Bayswater a wilderness, and Buckingham Palace a desert. As to the omnibuses, after one journey up and down they had given up running at all, as no one wanted a drive, and the few servants and working-men about preferred walking. Towards seven o’clock, Lionel felt inclined to have a little food, and he ordered a grilled sole and a custard. That would do for him, but evidently it did not do for Temple, who was quite shocked at his master’s abstemiousness, and recoiled before appearing in front of the cook with such a meagre menu. “He would be capable of throwing a dish at my head, my lord; he hardly believed me when I told him your lordship wanted two kidneys for lunch.”

But Lionel was determined, and would hear of nothing more for dinner and sent the cook to Jericho through the intermediary of Temple, adding that he could not eat more when he had no proper exercise, that he had had sufficient, having eaten when he felt hungry and left off when he had had enough—which he had not done for many years.

“Yes, my lord,” had respectfully answered the faithful valet, who perhaps at the same time thought his master’s remark a wise one.

The evening went by, bringing no change in the situation; and by nine o’clock it was universally known, and partly accepted, that from the Lord Chancellor to the Carlton waiter, frock-coat or no coat, woolsack or three-legged crock, a man was to be a man for a’ that. One great calamity had befallen them all, and in one minute levelled the whole of London’s inhabitants to the state of nature. The question arose in my lord’s mind whether they were sufficiently fitted for that state? Could they face the God Pan with as much composure as they had faced all the other gods? He heard the heavy footsteps of the lamplighter methodically going through his work. It was strange that he had never once thought of stopping his nocturnal routine. Evidently whatever happened, the streets had to be lighted, and Lionel mused long and deeply on these questions of duty and force of habit, as he looked out of the window into the street and observed the long shadow descending over London.

“Was it the sense of duty that prompted the actions of these menials?” He could not bring himself to think that, and he could not help believing that amongst his own superior class the sense of duty was always accompanied by a powerful sense of the fitness of things, so that if a virtue clashed with prejudices and the accepted standard of propriety, it was desirable that they should build up some new duty more in harmony with their worldly principles. There, no doubt, lay the difference between the upper classes and the lower, and which made the former shrink before breaking the laws of decorum, when the latter saw no objection to performing daily pursuits in their skins, unconcerned with higher motives of purity and exalted ideals.

Whether Lord Somerville had touched the keynote of social ethics remained unknown, but he retired early to his pallet and slept soundly through the still night.

Next day was the same, the day after identical, and the week passed thus without any change in the London phenomenon. Had the carpet in the Arabian tales carried the whole metropolis to some undiscovered planet, the wonderment could not have been greater. After a few days, Lionel observed that the L.C.C. Neptune had acquired more ease, more laisser-aller in his movements and postures, and decidedly sat less stiffly on his high perch; the butcher’s boy also carried his tray on his shoulder with distinct dash and comeliness. From his daily observations he came to the conclusion that London life, in its mechanical working, was going on pretty much as usual. He questioned his faithful valet, who by this time had become more than a servant, being newsagent and Court circular rolled into one. What he learned through the keyhole was astounding. No House of Commons, no Upper House were sitting! How could anything go on at that rate? Ah! that was the strangest part of it, for materially everything seemed to be as usual; the tradespeople came round for orders, and there was no danger of starving. The wheels of life kept on rolling, for, those who represented the axle were still in the centre of the wheel, and nothing could remove them. It was the upper part of the edifice that had given way, or at least had willingly retired into modest seclusion. The wheels might run for a long time without the coach, but the coach had no power to advance in any way without the wheels. This is what puzzled Lionel so much; he had always believed that if Society took it into its head to strike, the world would come to a standstill; and here was a colossal emergency in which one part of the edifice went on as if nothing had happened, while the other—in his eyes the important one—was forced to retire behind its walls, if it meant to keep sacred the principles of modesty and decorum; and still the whole structure had not foundered. Of course it could not last for ever. Nothing did last; and this axiom consoled Lord Somerville, as he cradled himself into the belief that the present condition would never answer in this eminently aristocratic empire. Why had not such a thing happened to Parisians? “I could safely declare that they would not have made such a fuss about it. They would have taken the adventure as it is, if transient, and would have accepted the joke with rollicking fun; if serious, they would have made the best of it, seen the plastic side of the situation, and at once endeavoured to live up to it as gracefully as possible. Yes, there lay the whole difference between the Latin race and the Anglo-Saxon; the former aimed at beauty, and the other, as the Bishop of Sunbury had said at Islington, aimed at a moral attitude.

“I suppose there is a certain amount of truth in this,” thought the Earl, as he sipped his cup of tea, “for here am I living up to a standard of punctilious modesty, which would even put the chaste Susannah to shame; and Heaven knows I never have been overburdened with principles, but, quite on the contrary, was oblivious of any moral attitude. It must be that the ambiante of this country is of a superior quality to that of any other.”

There was a gentle knock at the door: “The Bishop of Welby has sent round to know whether your lordship would allow your women-servants to help in the finding of a suitable text for a sermon he wishes to deliver when this state has ceased? His lordship is in a great stress, being unable to lay his hand on his Bible, and finds himself at a loss to recall all the contents of the Holy Scriptures.”

“By all means, Temple—I am always delighted to be of any use to the bishop, although, for my part, I regret I cannot help him in this. Can you remember any suitable text, Temple?”

Temple made no reply.

“I say, Temple, how do the dowagers take this kind of thing? I am rather curious to know how they manage.”

The valet inquired from the upper housemaid, who very soon gathered information from her friends along the areas, and in an hour the faithful newsagent had collected a bushel of gossip. The attitude of the dowagers towards the social calamity was one of stubborn resistance and of fervent prayer. The old Lady Pendelton had said to her maid, through the keyhole, that it was only a question of time, and that with a little display of self-control, for which the race was so celebrated, they would soon pull through this ghastly experience. Some of the old ladies, whose bedrooms were contiguous to those of their daughters, knocked on the wall exhorting their virtuous progeny to persevere in the ways of the righteous and to keep up a good heart. Out-door gossips would be supplied to them: “Sarah does not mind going out,” had shouted through the wall one of the pillars of female Society, “you see, dear Evelyn, these sort of people do not possess the same quality of modesty that we do—they have to toil, not to feel.” So thought the dowager, and many more believed this to be true. What a load of injustice was settled by such an argument!

When the first shock was over, and Lord Somerville had ceased wondering at a class of people who did not mind being seen in their Edenic attire, he dropped into a humorous mood, and passed in review a good many of his friends, men and women.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed in a fit of laughter, “I wonder what old Bentham looks like in his skin? The Stock Exchange will be a rum circus when they all race for cash as modern gladiators! And what of Pender, and of Clavebury; and Gladys Ventnor, Arabella Chale and tutti quanti?”

Then he thought of his friend, Victor de Laumel, of the Jockey Club in Paris. He felt convinced Victor would tell him, “I say, my good fellow, why do you mind? Go out and give the example of simplicity and good-humour.”

After all, it was not that he minded much, and if the Upper Ten appointed between themselves a day and hour in which they would all go out together, it would not be so bad; but it was the idea of appearing before and mixing with an indiscriminate crowd. It would be really annoying to have your butler look you up and down, and to stand the flitting sneer on the lips of your groom. Of course there was nothing in the abstract against an Edenic garment; but one must not forget that Adam and Eve were alone in Paradise, and had no crowd to pass unpleasant remarks over their personal appearance. It was only when that interfering Tertium quid had sneaked round the corner that they had lost all the fun in life. Well, if one reptile had the power to make them feel ashamed of themselves, what would it be now that thousands of little twinkling eyes were glaring, and that myriads of sharp tongues hissed and stung? It was quite evident that clothes kept the world within bounds of decency, besides restraining the overbearance of the lower classes and enforcing their respect for their superiors. What could our civilisation be without the cap-and-apron ethics? It is difficult enough to keep up a certain standard in the world with the help of smart surroundings; but how could one command deference from, and give orders to one’s domesticity in this attire?

On the eleventh day of this prison life, Lord Somerville woke with a sharp pain in his side, and as he sat up on his pallet he was seized with giddiness. This was a premonition which filled him with awe. His liver was hopelessly out of order, and no doubt many of his friends’ livers were in the same condition owing to this sedentary life. Hard thinking and solitary confinement would be sure to have a fatal effect on a race accustomed to exercise and deep drinking. The area gossip was ominous, and what Temple recorded to his master boded no good to the Upper Ten, who were suffering from a general attack of dyspepsia. It was a very serious question, a race doomed to sequestration; and there was a fear that eventually London, the well-drained, well-watered, well-lighted and altogether well-County-Councilled, would be turned into a vast lunatic asylum. When ethics meant apoplexy, it was time to halt and loosen the strings of propriety; and it was the duty of the sporting duke, the rubicund brewer, and of all the fastidious do-nothings, to weave for themselves in the seclusion of their chambers a new tissue of principles to suit their abnormal condition. Lionel inquired whether the Bishop had come to any conclusion about his text. Temple did not know about that, but he knew that the prelate had complained of insomnia and sickness, and asked for sal volatile. Lady Pendelton had been heard by her maid to fall on the floor. Was her ladyship better now? had asked Lionel. Yes, but her maid could hear her tottering in her room and moaning piteously.

“It is very bad this, Temple. I think something ought to be done for the good of the public; but what?”

“I believe that if your lordship would only show yourself—I beg your pardon, my lord—but an example would be beneficial, and your lordship is so popular, I am sure you would carry the day.”

“Do you really believe that my showing myself would be a general signal? You see, Temple, I do not want to find myself all alone in the streets of London, with all the dowagers grinning at their windows. That would never do.”

“Oh! your lordship need not fear. There is a great feeling of discontent among the higher classes; and before you could say Jack Robinson they would all follow your example.”

“That is certainly very encouraging. Bring me some boiling water to drink. No breakfast, thanks.”

The wave of revolt was rising furiously and threatening to drown all principles of decency. Utter disgust filled the hearts of Londoners when they retired to rest on the eleventh night of their voluntary seclusion. It is then, when large shadows envelop the city, that common-sense creepingly visits the bedside of each inhabitant; and as the mysterious hour that is supposed to unnerve the bravest man approaches, great principles give way, and practical reasoning comes to the fore, to ease the questionist out of his moral jungle.

CHAPTER III

When the men and women of this powerful race make up their minds to anything, whether right or wrong, they neither hesitate nor do they allow any time to elapse between decision and consummation. So it was that on the morning of the twelfth day Lord Somerville sprang off his couch, took his tub and brushed his hair with unusual alacrity. He did not give a passing glance at his mirror, strange to say; perhaps, had he done so, his resolution would have slackened; but Lord Somerville was wise, and, not unlike the ostrich, he believed that no one would look at him because he had not looked at himself. He opened his bedroom door, walked along the passages without meeting one of his domestics, and reached the beautiful marble staircase for which this mansion was so renowned. As he crossed the vestibule he gave a furtive look at the footman ensconced in his basket chair; but the latter was asleep, or at least his innate delicacy prompted him to this subterfuge, to allow his master to pass by unnoticed.

Lionel unbolted the front door with a sudden jerk, and as he did this he heard a successive unbolting of doors, which sounded throughout the silent city like a gun fired in honour of some royal birthday. In one or two seconds the streets were invaded.

He stood amazed on the pavement and marvelled at this stupendous event! It was true that England, for centuries, had prided herself on her public opinion. But what was the England of twelve days ago to that of to-day? Few nations could boast of an Upper Ten capable of such abnegation, that of one common accord they all decided to put away personal feelings, vanities and principles, for the sake of their fellow-creatures. One huge wave of altruism had swept over Society, which cherished the fond idea that it initiated, ruled and guided the rest of the world. Indeed, this was a great event in the modern history of Great Britain, already so rich in philanthropic examples. Lionel took a deep breath as he walked away from his ancestral mansion; he watched men rushing past him; evidently they were going straight to their business. He saw women shuffling alongside of the walls, as if these would throw a shadow over their naked forms; but who they were was quite beyond him to tell, and perhaps it was as well, at first, to ignore who they were. It was a boisterous exodus, though one imposed by the sense of duty; and the violent exercise of hurrying brought vigour back to their weakened limbs. Naturally the first observation of Lord Somerville was that this colourless mass of humanity was slightly monotonous, although soothing to wearied eyeballs. He followed a good many people, just for the fun of it, and frequently thought he was on the point of recognising some friend or acquaintance; but no, it was hopeless to try and find out who was who; besides, they nearly all seemed to shun one another, and as they passed each other bowed their heads and looked on the ground. He reached Trafalgar Square; there the scene was full of animation: children were jumping in and out of the fountains, and shaking themselves as birds do their feathers after a good ducking; men ran round the Landseer lions for a constitutional, and women dodged them on the other side, in this way endeavouring to keep up a semblance of feminine coyness. There was no doubt that this part of London was different from the genteel Mayfair, and it threatened to be rowdy as you approached the City. Lionel walked past Charing Cross, which looked abandoned; but the Strand—the main artery of London’s anatomy—was surging with a buoyant population rushing to the City-heart. Lionel thought he would have great fun in watching office doors, and would perhaps recognise a few millionaire bounders who certainly were not like the Society men of his stamp, and therefore would be more easily recognised. He went up Fleet Street, leaving St Paul’s on his left, walked through Threadneedle Street, where he knew many of the City magnates. Pacing up and down the pavement he thought he would have a good opportunity of seeing the men who went in and out of offices and of conjecturing on their identity. Very soon he witnessed a wild scene of confusion: men darted out of offices suffused with deep blushes; managers of large warehouses ran in and out of houses in delirium! Another idea crossed Lionel’s mind: evidently these people were, like him, unable to recognise anyone; business men were at a loss to know their clerks from their financier friends, as they could not discern buyers from sellers. Of course in this terrible mystification, there was no attempt made at bowing or talking in the streets of London; it was a new departure from last week’s urbanity, when courteousness had been distributed according to the more or less respectability of external appearance.

“I am afraid that insurmountable difficulties will stare us in the face,” murmured Lionel as he retraced his steps towards Piccadilly, after fruitless attempts at knowing his friends in the crowd. “We have not yet grasped what this new position means; at first we have thought of decency, some, I suppose, have dwelt on morality’s destiny; but I do declare that it means more than all that. If we cannot know employers from employees the whole status of civilisation is done with. This is a thing of which I had never thought.” He noticed, on his way home, that women had tears rolling down their cheeks, and men, as he brushed past them, swore in their moustaches. Lord Somerville felt a choking sensation in his throat as he realised that the old life with all its ease and luxury was over. Everything was so bare, so ugly. Where were the bewitching fashions that rejoiced his fastidious eye? Where the daintily-gowned young girls and women in our beautiful parks? As women passed by, he wondered to what class of Society they belonged. How could the shop-girl now be differentiated from the Duke’s daughter? He never could have believed such a dilemma possible. In front of his club he glanced through the swinging glass doors, and saw a portly individual standing; but he could not for his life tell whether it was the hall porter or one of the members.

Solitary confinement for twelve days had nearly driven Londoners mad; but he now realised that isolation in the midst of a maddening crowd would soon turn them into drivelling idiots. What they had gone through for more than a week had been a conflict between virtue and self-interest; but the future was more fearful, for more than interest was at stake, as self-respect was threatened to sink in this universal levelling. When he thought of all the social solecisms likely to occur in this state of incognito, he shuddered. If it was impossible to know whom to bow to, whom to nod to and whom to snub, however could Society exist? Our exclusive circles owed their existence to those delicate nuances of politeness; and when the sliding scales of courtesy were abolished, Democracy was at hand, for no power on earth could stem the torrent of Anarchism from overpowering defenceless Society.

The first exodus was decidedly a failure, and Lionel felt the galling bitterness of disappointment when, between twelve and one, he entered his house, refusing all the entreaties of his valet to partake of a dainty luncheon. All London was in the same discomfited mood that morning, and the fashionable beauty, reclining on her hard couch, wept bitter tears over her defunct wardrobe and hat-boxes. The company promoter behind his window, looking at the irritating butcher’s boy and callous milkman, grunted audibly, “These are the sort of people we are now to rub against at every turn!”

There evidently was more behind feathers and furbelows than our friend Horatio could have known, and London would have to spell the first words of a philosophy which would be drier to them all than that of Plato, Kant or Carlyle.

After two more days of keen despair, the same longing for fresh air seized hold of the Upper Ten; though this time bolts were not drawn with that vigour which had given to the first exodus the sound of a salute of musketry. It was more like a distant roll of thunder, forerunner of a clouded atmosphere. The exit from houses was not any more triumphant and didactic, it was slow and cheerless; and had not the air been balmy, the sky blue, citizens would have felt a shiver run down their spine as they realised their abandoned condition. This time Lord Somerville restricted his wanderings to the smart thoroughfares, leaving the mercantile City to its own confusion. He entered restaurants where he had known many of the habitués; but he went out of them shocked at not being recognised by any of his friends. Formerly all was so easy; one had but to step out, and one knew exactly who was who by the brim of a hat, the cut of a coat, the handling of a walking-stick; but not even a rude stare could help one now to identify anyone, and nothing could save one from committing a social faux pas. He strolled up the Haymarket. How difficult it was to walk in that attire. “I wonder if Adam rambled all over Paradise, and if he did not feel awkward? I wish I knew what to do with my hands.” There was a crowd at Piccadilly Circus, and he had great difficulty in advancing. What attracted the attention of the population were the empty windows of Swan & Edgar’s. Hundreds of women were peering through the deserted shops which had hitherto been over-crowded with ladies’ apparel of every kind and sort. He edged his way through and contrived to get on the pavement; but many pushed him, and he elbowed freely in this crowd of Adams and Eves. He was very much astonished to find himself saying “Beg your pardon” when he unconsciously collided with anyone.

“After all, I do not know who I am knocking against, it might be my most intimate friend, and upon the whole it is better to be polite to someone you do not know than to be wanting in common civility towards a friend.” The Earl had unwittingly got hold of a vital problem, and one that would no doubt induce Society some day to transform the tone of politeness.

In Hyde Park he noticed several groups, and towards the Serpentine the crowd became denser; but to escape the noisy clamour of urchins splashing in the water he took a small path leading to Kensington Gardens. Most of the smart world would be there, thought Lionel, though the outing was not one of fashion. Hygiene and reflection were drawing both sexes to the shady parts of Kensington; they felt their isolation less oppressively in this glorious verdure. The soft grass was more refreshing than hot pavements; the trees, hedges and flower-beds were more fragrant surroundings than high houses; and in this harmonious frame one would feel less at variance with a discordant world.

The day was young yet, hardly 11.30, and the hot rays of the sun were piercing through the foliage of the broad avenue facing the Palace. Solitary individuals walked on the cool grass, sat on stone benches and iron chairs; but none talked to anyone, and there lacked in this mythological picture the animation that humanity generally brings into a landscape. Birds were busy chirping, making love, mock quarrelling, and the leaves rustled softly as a breath of hot wind caressed the branches of trees.

Lord Somerville lay down on a stone bench, linking his arms behind his head. He let his fanciful imagination have full play: allowing philosophy to suggest to him queer problems concerning the personal appearance of some of his lady friends. A chuckle rose to his lips; a sparkling twinkle lighted up his pale blue eye. He saw at a distance a small, dapper man coming this way; his head was well set on his shoulders; there was no hesitation in his step, no awkwardness in his bearing; one of his hands was placed on one hip, the other dropped gracefully at his side, as he stood within a few yards of the young heir to large properties.

“Who can that be? Can it be my tailor? I can only think of him recognising me at a glance, these fellows know us inside out. Deucedly awkward though to be accosted like this by tradespeople.” And as the newcomer stood close to him, the Earl sat up, and bowed as disdainfully as he could manage under the circumstances.

“I daresay you do not know me, my lord, but I have that advantage over your lordship, having seen you often about town, and frequently admired your equipages in the Park, and noticed your presence in one of the boxes at the Tivoli.”

This was a touch of kin, and something in the tone of his interlocutor cheered Lionel and put him in a happy train of thought. The link with the outer world, his world of ready-made pleasures and strong stimulants, was not quite broken. A rush of the past life came surging back to his mind, and he grasped the hand of his new friend as Robinson Crusoe must have done that of Friday when the latter made his appearance on the deserted island.

“I seem to know you, sir; although I cannot put a name to your face; but let me, all the same, greet you warmly; you are the first that has recognised me since the storm.”

“And that is a fortnight ago, my lord, a very long lapse of time for your lordship, who is such a favourite in Society. But I haven’t come here only to disturb your musings; I have a motive, a very serious one, that will ultimately affect you and all London. First of all, I am Dick Danford of the Tivoli, the White Bread, and of the Saltseller.”

“Now I know where I have seen you, heard you and applauded you, Mr Danford. Your voice came home to me as would a favourite strain of music of which the title has slipped one’s memory. What can I do for you? I am at your service. Let us stroll under these shady trees, it will be cooler than here, and you will tell me all you have to say.”

“Well, my lord,” began the little dapper Tivoli artist, when they had reached the shade of the long avenue, “you know, as we all do, what has happened. It is needless to remark any more on the deadlock of business, in whatever branch it may be, owing to manufacturers and weavers being on the streets and cheque-books having vanished into thin air.”

“Yes, and we have no purses, and no pockets to put them in.”

“We will not discuss the feminine point of view of this event, my lord; their coyness and pudicity are of course a credit to their sex, and we can but honour them for carrying so high the ideal of womanhood; but that must wear off in time, as the fair sex finds out that the world cannot wait for them, and that the rotation of our planet cannot come to a standstill because the modesty of our wives and sisters is in jeopardy.”

The little mimic lifted his sharply-cut features and looked into the long, aristocratic face of his listener.

“I am all ears, Mr Danford; but about modesty I have nothing to say. Mayfair is not the nursery for such delicate plants; besides, I think that coyness is already on the wane, for I see several groups of women lounging about. Do not trouble your clever head about that, and tell me in what way I can be of any use to you?”

“The point is this, my lord, as you know, no one is able to recognise anyone. No high-collared cloak nor slouch hat and mask could be a better disguise than this general unmasking. You know the adage: ‘Tell the truth, and no one will believe you.’ We can add another truism: ‘Show yourself as you are, and no one will know you.’ No doubt, there is still a little mannerism that clings to the individual, by which one could recognise their identity; but it would require a strenuous effort of the mind, and a wonderful memory of personal tricks, to be able to arrive at knowing who’s who. So I have bethought myself of a plan. We artists of the Music Hall alone possess the art of observation. You see, we have made a special study of the physiognomy, and have stored our brains with all the particularities of Society leaders, the oddities of the clergy, of City magnates and gutter marionettes. Some remedy must be found at once for this present state of affairs, or else the whole edifice of Society will disappear, and we artists will perish in the downfall. The remedy cannot come from the Upper Ten, I am afraid, for they have no memory nor any observing powers. I beg your pardon, my lord, but I am speaking very openly on the subject, and you must excuse me if I feel the position very keenly.”

“Go on, my dear Danford; what you say is very true and very interesting. I am beginning to see what you mean. By the way, I think I see the Duke of Southdown on that chair—shall we walk up to him? You might tell him of your plan.”

“Do nothing of the kind!” hurriedly said the mimic, laying a firm hand on Lord Somerville’s arm. “The man you take for His Grace is a driver of the London General Omnibus Company. Now, my lord, you see what mistakes you are likely to make.”

“By God, I could have sworn this was the Duke! But, Danford, do you never commit such solecisms?”

“No, very rarely.” Danford shook his head knowingly, and over his thin lips flitted that indefinable smile for which he was so renowned on the boards. “But there you are, you have not made a special study of human physiognomy, and have not through hard plodding acquired that sense of observation, that keenness of perception, that we have, for you have had no need to retain the facial grimaces and queer movements of individuals. To-day the Music Halls are closed and we are broke, but in this wreckage, we artists have saved our precious faculty of memorising. The profession has therefore decided to make a new move; this morning I saw the manager of the Tivoli, who asked me to be the intermediary between the profession and the aristocracy—of which, my lord, you are one of the strongest columns. This state of things looks as if it were going to last, and as we cannot prevent it we must boom it.”

“I follow you, Danford, and am curious to know what you will propose as a remedy.”

“Well, my lord, I advise that we artists, men and women, should open in every district of London Schools of Observation, in which the art of memorisation will be taught, and prizes will be given to pupils who recognise the most faces in one hour. I myself believe that Society will not easily learn that art; for it has so long relied on outward signs to guide it in the recognition of folks, that its faculties are warped, and it will take us all our time to pull Society through this difficulty. Then a special branch should be started at once, or else the aristocracy will sink into the deep waves of oblivion. We must all—I mean the Music Hall variety artists—accept engagements for dinner-parties, receptions, afternoon teas; in fact, for every entertainment where more than two are gathered, and act as social guides. To give you a sample of what I can do, my lord, I propose to take a stroll with you along the favourite thoroughfares of town; not at present, for London will turn in for luncheon very soon, but between six and seven o’clock we can meet again.”

“Are you sure, Danford, that we shall find anyone out at that time?”

“Ah! You do not know Londoners as well as I do. They have had enough of seclusion. They have twice tasted fresh air, and they will long to taste it again. Public opinion is as strong as ever in our country; it is a wave that rolls incessantly over the London beach; the débris of wrecks cast up by the sea are very soon washed away by the next wave, and so does the tide of public opinion eternally sweep away some old political hobby, and bring back some moral crank. The smallest scheme becomes a national enterprise in this island of ours, and if once Society takes up our idea, the world is saved. This evening there will be more Londoners out than there are at present. Everyone, more or less—of course invalids excepted—is unable to sacrifice practical life to a preconceived idea of virtue; we are even very much to be praised for having given up ten of our precious days to a moral principle.”

“This would not have occurred in any Latin country, for they depend so much on their intercourse with human beings; perhaps we have less merit, after all, in having remained confined so many days, as we are not so sociable as our Latin neighbours.”

“Oh! What an error, my lord; I have always thought the reverse, and firmly believe that we Britishers are the most superficial of human creatures.”

“Still, you cannot deny, Danford, that our lower classes take their pleasures gloomily?”

“I am astonished that you should make such a remark, Lord Somerville; you are too much up-to-date to bring that exploded accusation against our race. If our lower orders take Sunday rambles in our City graveyards, it is not for the dead that they go there, but partly for the flowers and the trees; mostly, however, in search of excitement. They spell the In Memoriams on tombstones as they would devour penny novelettes. It gives them a glamour of romance and tragedy, as a jeweller’s shop window opens a glittering vista of luxury to the hungry stare of a beggar. It is always what lies behind the scenes that will for ever enthral the minds of human beings. You, of the Upper Ten, have excitements of all sorts, subtle and coarse; amusements of every descriptions, frivolous or cruel; passions of all kinds, high and low; but the wearied toilers have only the routine of an eventless existence; no wonder shop windows and graveyards are their arena, but it does not follow that they take their pleasures sadly. A child will play with a dead man’s skull if he has no painted doll.”

They had reached Hyde Park Corner.

“I have passed a very pleasant hour with you, Danford; perhaps one of the pleasantest for many years. Shall we say 6.30 at the foot of Achilles’s statue?”

“Yes, my lord, and the place you name is most appropriate.”

With a wave of the hand Danford walked away in the direction of Sloane Street, and Lord Somerville slowly went up Piccadilly. He felt what he had not experienced since his Eton days—an interest in life; and he was determined to see this farce through.

CHAPTER IV

Dick Danford was as good as his word. After an hour’s stroll through London, Lord Somerville came to the conclusion that, for the present, his eyes were no more to him than a tail would have been. The old world of before the storm seemed to have vanished in a bottomless pit, and what he viewed instead was as prodigious as what he had hoped to see on his travels across Acheron. He noticed that tricks and mannerisms were as yet clinging to both sexes: women still grasped their invisible dresses as if they had been bunches of keys, twisted about their fingers absent chains round their necks; men tried to put their hands in vanished pockets, and held imaginary umbrellas in front of them (the latter Danford declared were clergymen), and their necks, stiffened by the long use of high collars, gave them the appearance of turkeys. But as to knowing anyone in this Babel of faces, that was quite out of the question; and Lionel went from one ejaculation to another as Dick enumerated the different notabilities of Society, the theatrical world and financial booths. It was like a transformation scene at Drury Lane. The world was not what he had altogether taken it to be, and if he found himself to have been even more swindled than he had believed, still, there were surprises for which he had not been prepared and which were worth living for: the beautiful women were not all as beautiful as he had thought them, but the plain ones had a great many points that commended them to a connoisseur. As to the men whom he had feared as rivals in the arena of good fortunes, they made him smile as he gave an admiring glance at his spinal curve reflected in a shop mirror. The little artist’s conversation was a succession of fireworks; never on the boards had he been more entertaining than this afternoon, acting the part of a humorous Mephistopheles to this masher Faust. He informed Lord Somerville that after he had left him in the morning he had done some good work for the public welfare, and had come to a final arrangement with the Commissioner of Police.

“What for, Danford?” had inquired Lionel.

“Well, I do not know whether it struck you as it did me at your first exit, my lord, but the very first observation that impressed itself on me was the difficulty women had in distinguishing a policeman from an ordinary civilian. I watched many in distress, who gave an appealing look all round for the kindly help of a bobby. It was hard to tell whether that man on the left with a dogged expression and thin legs was the policeman, or whether it was this other on the right, with limbs like marble columns and a puny face. Such dilemmas puzzled the public all through the day, and decided the Committee of Music Hall artists to take the matter in hand and confer with the heads of the Police.”

“Have you come to some understanding, Dick?”

“The thing is settled. Scotland Yard is to be turned into a public gymnasium, and a staff of picked policemen are to instruct the citizens in the art of being their own policemen.”

“How very expeditious you are in your profession. Had this been in the hands of Parliament, we should never have heard anything about it, however pressing the need might have been.”

“Then, another feature of our School of Observation will be special prizes to be awarded to husbands who will recognise their wives, or vice versa, when out of their homes. I think that will take in Society, for I have noticed that the nearer the relationship the more difficult it was to know one another.”

“You are very neat in your remarks, Danford,” said Lionel.

“You see, my lord, every judgment I arrive at is the result of keen observation. I heard once, during our ten days of seclusion, the most awful row in the house next to mine; it belongs to the Longfords—you know, the Longfords who took the Regalia Theatre for a season. Well, their housemaid reported to my landlady what the row was about, and she told me the next morning through the keyhole what had been the matter. The fact was this: Mrs Longford had entered her husband’s room and had had the greatest difficulty in persuading him she was his lawful wife. If such a scene could occur between a couple of twenty years’ standing, in their own house, how much more difficult it would be to recognise your wife in the crowd.”

“And hence your idea of a prize. I think that had you decided to award it to the man who recognised another man’s wife you would have been more successful.”

“We should have been bankrupt by the end of a week, my lord; besides, this was a feature of the old Society, and we want to launch it on a totally novel basis. Originality must be our watchword.”

Lord Somerville, having been struck by the keen judgment and foresight of the little buffoon, had willingly promised him his support in every way. He would send round to all his friends and spread the idea amongst the Upper Ten, who would be sure to lead the movement and give a salutary example to the middle classes. Arrived at the corner of Park Lane, Lionel had wistfully inquired of Danford whether he knew Gwendolen Towerbridge? Dick was sorry, but he could not help Lord Somerville in that line. Engaged people were quite out of his department, Lord Somerville would have to solve that problem for himself; to which Lionel had shrugged his shoulders: just as well guess whose face was behind a thick mask.

That evening Lionel sat up late in his library planning in his mind the organisation of the new Society of social guides. He frequently interrupted his work to look up at his father’s portrait; his type was not unlike hundreds of men he had seen during the day, and he wondered how he could recognise his own father were he alive? Would not the latter have been slightly bewildered in this Babel? Would not his pedantic theories on good breeding receive a shock were he now to step out of his frame and take a stroll through the streets of London?

Towards two o’clock in the morning the Earl had memorised the whole synopsis of the new Society, to be launched under the gracious patronage of the Earl of A.B.C. and of Her Grace the Duchess of X.Y.Z., and he retired to his pallet of plaited rushes with a sigh of contentment at the prospect of a new spectacular show, and with a sense of relief at the thought that Gwendolen was lost to him, more irrevocably lost in this general unmasking than if a vessel had foundered on a rock, leaving her on a desert island.

In a few days London resumed its usual occupations; we cannot say that it looked quite the same, but Society apparently was in the swing once more. How could it be otherwise, when the flowers were in full bloom, the birds were warbling and the sun was shining? The brittle veneer of false modesty had crumbled under the power of necessity, and the inside of a fortnight had witnessed the downfall of prudery. No scandal ever reached two weeks’ duration; how could a virtuous craze have outlived it? Very different would it have been had half London appeared clad, while the other half remained unclothed; the contrast would have been offensive, and have called for wrathful indignation; but as everyone was in the same way, unquestioned submission became a virtue as well as a necessity. Thus argued Society, for the hard blow dealt by the infuriated elements was fast healing, and the ex-fashionable and would-be smart people hailed Lord Somerville’s new plan with enthusiasm. There was a great demand for social guides, a feverish excitement to take lessons at once in the art of observation, and a rush to attend lectures on physiognomy. At first curiosity was a powerful stimulant. “It would be ripping,” thought the Society girl, “to find out whether Lady Lilpot and Lady Brownrigg’s figures, which were so admired last season, were really bona-fide, or only the fabrics of padding and whalebone.” But very soon laziness damped their former ardour, and once more Society, ever incorrigible in its taste for ready-made pleasure, started the fashion of having social guides attached to their respective households. Had not ladies of fashion, men about town, formerly needed the services of French maids and experienced valets? It goes without saying that after the storm the constant attendance of these two custodians of the wardrobe were more irksome than pleasant, for they reminded persons of fashion of their vanished glory. These were therefore dismissed, for the housemaids could easily fulfil the scanty duties of the present dressing-rooms. Instead of the departed domestics, social guides were requisitioned. Lord Somerville was generally congratulated on his luck in obtaining the services of Dick Danford, who was considered to be at the very top of his position. He united an infallible memory to an astounding accuracy of inductive methods in human generalisation; but what most commended him to his patron and pupil were the philosophical and satirical sidelights he threw at every turn on Society and the various professions. As Lionel hourly conferred with his Mentor, he became more and more enthralled in his work of social reform; his daily walks through the parks at Dick’s elbow were a continual source of interest, and the object lessons in human nature, provided by the London streets, threw him at times into the wildest spirits.

The guides had a hard time of it in trying to bring their pupils out of that reserve so dear to the race, and they found great difficulty in making them act with more initiative. As long as the guide was at hand, it was all well, but when left to themselves, lady pupils and gentlemen students could not be brought to use their own judgment, and boldly venture to recognise people without the guide’s help, so fearful were they of committing social blunders. Still, Danford was sanguine; he kept saying that if the British lion had, in a fortnight, conquered the sense of shame, he would, in a few days more, throw pride to the four winds. He turned out to be quite right, for in ten days more London was launching out into a whirlpool of festivities.

The little buffoon was very entertaining, and kept his pupil in fits of laughter, relating his various experiences in the smart circles of London. Over and over again a pleading voice whispered to him in the Park or at a party, “Oh dear Mr Danford, I wish you would look in to-morrow at my small tea-fight. Do you think Lord Somerville could spare you for an hour or two? His father was such an old friend of mine. I have asked a very few people, but after the butler’s announcement I shall never know one from another—hi! hi! hi!” Another would in a deep, rough voice tell him to run in at luncheon Friday next: “Mrs Bilton is simply longing to meet you; she has a daft daughter who persists in taking the footman for her pa—very awkward, isn’t it? I am sure, Mr Danford, you would teach her in a few lessons how to recognise her dad, for the girl is rather quick otherwise.” “Ah, madam,” had replied the smart little guide, “it takes a very wise girl to know her own father in our present Society; I have seen strange instances of divination, and in many cases the girl, instead of a duffer, turned out to be too wise.” Or else a distracted and jealous wife who could not distinguish her lord and master in the crowd, appealed to the mimic, imploring him to tell her by what special sign she might know him again. To which Dick ironically answered that he was not teaching people how to see moles, freckles and scars on human bodies, but was instructing them in the art of physiognomy.

“But my husband is like thousands of men.”

“You mean by that, that he is without any facial expression?” and Dick shrugged his shoulders.

“Then how shall I ever know my husband?”

“Ah, dear Lady Woolhead, you have hit on the fundamental question of our age. Indeed, how can you recognise him, when you do not know, nor ever have known, him? And I have no doubt that he is in the same plight about yourself.” And Lord Somerville would remark,—

“How amusing life must be to you, my dear Danford; gifted with such satirical wit, you need never pass a dull moment.” That was all very true, but had you asked the Tivoli comedian what he really thought of his employ in Lord Somerville’s household, he would have told you, though with bated breath, that it was not an easy mission to keep a Mayfair cynic amused, for at the vaguest approach of dulness, his lordship threatened to give up the game of life, and go over the way to see there what sort of a farce was on the bills.

“I say, Dick, how would Adam have looked in a hansom, flourishing a branch of oak tree to stop the cabby?”

“And what does your lordship think of Eve’s attitude in a four-wheeler, ducking her fair head in and out of the window to indicate the way to the driver?”

“Danford, this won’t do. The naked form is not at its advantage seated upright in a brougham, nor is it decorative when doubled up on the back seat of a victoria.”

They were both struck by the unæsthetic appearance of the present vehicles, as they arrived one afternoon at Mrs Webster’s house in Carlton Terrace.

“We shall have to discover some suitable conveyance for the Apollos and Venuses of new London.”

Standing on the steps of the house they passed in review all fashionable London stepping out of landaus, victorias, broughams, hansoms; certainly the kaleidoscopic vision was not a success.

Mrs Webster was giving her first large At Home of the season. She was noted for her gorgeous parties, her gorgeous suppers and gorgeous fortune; but still more celebrated for her picture gallery and her kindness to artists. In her gallery was supposed to be lying two millions sterling worth of Old Masters, but her benevolence to artists did not cost her a farthing, it was a Platonic help she bestowed on them, and her charity had never been known to exceed an introduction to the Duchess of Southdown. She received all sorts and conditions of men and women; all London met at her “crushes,”—Duchesses elbowed cowboys, Royal Highnesses sat close to political Radicals, and Bishops handed an ice to some notorious Mimi-la-Galette of the Paris Music Halls. They all danced to the tune of clinking gold. In fact, Mrs Webster’s house, like so many others, was a stockpot out of which she ladled a social broth of high flavour. There were many stockpots in London, from the strong consommé of exclusive brewing to the thin, tasteless Bovril of homely concoction. That of Mrs Webster’s was a pottage of heterogeneous quality; it had a Continental aroma of garlic, a back-taste of the usual British spice, and it left on one’s lips a lingering savour of parvenu relish. The Upper Ten went to her dinners, though they screamed at her uncanny appearance, jeered at the authenticity of her Raphaels and Da Vincis, and quoted to each other anecdotes about her that had put even Mrs Malaprop in the shade. But these are the unsolvable problems of a Society divided into two sections; the one that wishes to know everything about the people they visit; the other who does not want to know anything about them.

CHAPTER V

After looking at the prologue of the show, Lionel and Danford entered the house and ascended the steps of the once richly-carpeted staircase. At the top stood, or at least wabbled, a little woman, leaning heavily on a stick; at her side was Sam Yorick, the social guide, who had no rival as a mimic of Parliamentary members, but who could not hold a candle to Dick Danford. Mrs Webster had applied too late, and had to take Yorick and consider herself lucky to get him, for he was the last male guide available, and she strongly objected to having a woman guide.

The house was superbly decorated with large china vases in which magnolias, azaleas, and rhododendrons had been placed. The reception-rooms were filling rapidly; it was soon going to be a crush. Every description of plastic was there—the small, tall, large, thin; and one uniform shade prevailed, that of the flesh colour. As the rays of the burning sun entered obliquely, tracing long lines of golden light on the parqueted floor, it illuminated equally the phalanxes of refined feet and ankles, flat insteps and knobby toes.

“My lord, do you see there Mrs Archibald?”

“What, the vaporous Mrs Archibald? But where is the grace of the woman we used to call the sylph of Belgravia?”

“She lost her chiffon covering in the London storm, my lord.”

“Some fat old dowager malignantly said of her that she was draped in her breeding, so thin and undulating did she appear. But, has the breeding disappeared also in the torrential rain? for she looks as strong as a horse—see these thick ankles, short wrists, and red arms. I always objected to that sylph in cream gauze, for one never could get at her, she lived de profil and one only could peep at her through side doors.”

“Who was her husband?” inquired the little artist.

“He was colonel of a crack regiment. His ideas were limited to two dogmas: the sense of military exclusiveness, and a profound horror of intellectual women. Like his wife he was well-bred.”

“Yes, my lord, but the Englishman has definite limits to his gentility; the brute, though dormant, lies ready to leap and bite when he is annoyed.”

“What are you, Danford, if not an Englishman?” Lionel smiled.

“Ah! satirists have neither sex nor nationality; but pray go on with your alembic of Colonel Archibald’s character.”

“Well, he chose his wife because she was a well-bred girl—or at least had her certificate of good breeding—also because she was well connected and thoroughly trained in all social cunning.”

“Yes, and I daresay the thin, well-trained piece of machinery had been stirred by the dashing young officer. She secretly harboured love in that secret corner of the heart and senses which thorough-bred folks ignore outwardly but slyly analyse. We must not forget, my lord, that she has short wrists and thick ankles—ha! ha!—he was of her set, so nature could be let loose, while creeping passion was allowed to fill her whole being.”

“True, my dear Mephisto, but generations of women before her have done the same, and she did not disgrace the long lineage of mediocrity and avidity. She had been told what all women are told in our world—namely, that a lady never spoke loudly, never thought broadly; therefore she ruined her friends’ reputations under a whisper, and put the Spanish Inquisition to shame by her pietistical hypocrisy.”

As Lionel ended this homily of the vapoury Mrs Archibald, a group of bystanders dispersed, and Lady Carey was visible to our two pilgrims.

“That is Lady Carey, my lord, widow of Sir Reginald, who made himself so conspicuous in India.”

“Do you mean the positive little woman who followed fashion’s dictates, though she kicked, in words, at the absurdity of some exaggerated garments?”

“Ah! but finally submitted to all the caprices of the mode, my lord—resistance would have been a crime of lese-toilette—yes, it is she, or at least what is left of her—a bundle of mannerism and puckered flesh, sole survivals of an artificial state. At times she is deep, more often frivolous, of a hasty temper and a very cold temperament; in fact, her personality is made up of full stops. Her brain seems to have been built of blind alleys, which lead to nowhere. She is suggestive and narrow-minded, gushing and worldly-wise; she never allows passion to tear her heart to shreds, but talks freely about women’s frolics, and tells naughty stories with a twinkle in her eye and a pout on her lip. What a pity such a woman had missed the coach to originality, and had alighted at the first station—superficiality!”

“I say, Dan, can you put a label on that fine piece of statuary talking over there to Tom Hornsby?”

“That, my lord, surely you ought to know—ha! ha! ha! What an ingrate you are! it is Lady Ranelagh. She who reigned over London Society by right of her beauty.”

“By right of position, you might add, dear Mephisto.”

“And finally, my lord, by right of insolence,” interrupted the little buffoon.

“She frequently argued with life like a fishwife,” went on Lionel, “and few know as well as I do what funny questions she put to destiny; yet she never saw her true image in her mental mirror, and Society never recoiled from her; but as you know, Dan, Society never recoils from any of her members: the contract between swindlers and swindled is never broken, and if by any chance some speck of dirt sticks to one of the columns that support the social edifice, Society is always ready to pay the costs of whitewash.”

“Yet, my lord, this Carmen of Mayfair is now caught in the wheels of the inevitable, and she has to face to-day the worst of all judges—nature.”

“Do you see that little Tanagra figure leaning against the door?—there, just in front of you, Danford.”

“You mean Lady Hurlingham, my lord, with her vermilion cheeks framed in meretriciously youthful curls. She is a thorough woman of the world.”

“With her, my dear Danford, a man is quite safe. She did everything from curiosity, which enabled her to reappear unwrinkled and unsullied after her varied experience; she derived all the fun she could extract from life without singeing the smallest feather of her wings.”

“And still, my lord, one could hardly dare to whisper an indelicate word before that Greuzelike visage.”

“Quite so, dear Mephisto; those red lips would rather kiss than tell, those large melting eyes are pure—to an uninformed observer. Honi soit—ha! ha! ha!”

The sarcastic laughter of the two men was drowned by the tuning of a beautiful Stradivarius, and for a moment the rising uproar of a London At Home was hushed.

Johann Staub stood near the piano, his long brown hair framing a strong Teutonic face, his deep, dark eyes roving over the mass of heads turned towards him. He played magnificently, electric vibrations ran through his leonine mane, still, they hardly listened; the silence that had followed his first bars of the Kreuzer Sonata was soon broken, as voices one by one resumed their interrupted chatting, and the Dowager Lady Pendelton, lulled by the heat and the scent of exotic flowers, let her senile chin drop on her wrinkled breast. She was asleep. Staub ended his Sonata, and loud applause broke loose, a kind of thanksgiving applause, not in honour of the superb way in which the artist had played, but to celebrate their relief and satisfaction at his having finished. Old women went up to him, pressed his hands, asked him to luncheon, to dinner—would they were young—to what would they not invite him! The one had heard Paganini—“Psh! he was no match to you.” Another had known Beriot very well—he was the only one to whom he could be compared. Lady Pendelton woke suddenly, gave a few approving grunts, her eyes still shut, while she struck the parquet with her ebony stick. She wanted Mrs Webster to bring Staub to her at once, as she would like her granddaughter, Lady Augusta, to have some violin lessons.

“Danford, are you not, like me, struck by the incongruity of all this?”

“My lord, to-morrow, after breakfast, I shall submit to you some of my observations on the subject of entertainments. Look at these women seated on chairs, these men bending over them. Their movements are without grace and their hair badly dressed; we cannot have any more of the Patrick Campbell style in our modern mythology. Besides, there are too many people here, and in this Edenic attire the less people you group together, the better the effect.”

“I agree with you, Dan; but for God’s sake let us leave this room—I see someone approaching the piano. Let us be off, I am dying with thirst.” They edged their way down the staircase, not without trouble, for the crowd was coming back from partaking of refreshment, and climbing up the stairs with the renewed vigour that champagne and sandwiches give to drawing-room visitors. As they jammed sideways through the dining-room door, Lionel frowned at the discomfort, and Dan, finding himself breast to breast with his pupil, murmured to him,—

“I should abolish this barbarous fashion of going downstairs to feed at the altar of the tea-urn and bread-and-butter. Ah! at last we are through!”

“The buffet system has always revolted me”—a shiver ran down Lionel’s back. “That kind of social bar at which both sexes voraciously satisfy their internal craving has, to my mind, been a proof of the uncivilised state of Society.”

“But the whole thing is based on false pretences, my lord. Can I get you a glass of champagne?” and he ducked his head between two women who were talking loudly and munching incessantly. “Parties like these are Zoo entertainments at which the pranks of some animal are to be viewed; it is either a foreign prince, a cowboy, or a monkey.”

“Very often,” added Lionel, sipping his champagne, “it is not so original, and only consists of personal interests; this one is going to be introduced to a member of Parliament; a woman is going to meet her lover; a man to see his future bride. There is very little sociability in our social bazaars, I assure you.”

“Do you see that man leaning against the marble mantelpiece, my lord? That is old Watson telling a funny story to Lord Petersham.”

“The story must be highly flavoured, for Lord Petersham is shaking with laughter.”

“Do not be mistaken, my lord, his lordship never laughs at another man’s story—I know him well—he is bursting now with a joke he will tell old Watson when he has stopped laughing.”

“My dear Dan, we are the rudest nation on earth. We stick lightning conductors on the statues of our great men, and walk on people’s toes, only apologising when we happen to know them personally. The nobodies are insolent, because they wish you to think them somebodies; and the somebodies are arrogant, for they want you well to understand that you are nobodies.”

“The room is emptying, my lord, the sun has withdrawn its rays and the flowers are drooping their tired petals.”

“Let us be off then!” and Lionel laid his hand on Danford’s shoulder. “There is old Lady Pendelton being wheeled across the hall by her footman—unless it is her nephew, Lord Robert. She pompously looks round as she proceeds between the two rows of gazers. She is the epilogue of this comedy—a sort of ‘God Save the King’ unsung! This is all impossible, my dear fellow; this old woman, Mrs Webster, is played out in our new era, and the dowagers of the Pendelton kind have no place, any more in our reformed London.”

The two men left the house and walked into St James’s Park.

“I shall give a party, Dick—something out of the common.”

“Yes, my lord; they will accept from you what they would shirk from anyone else.”

“How ever could these people imagine that our present state of nature would admit of these social crushes? Why, the notion of rubbing against one’s neighbour ought to have deterred them from crowding into these rooms.”

“The cause of all this incongruity is laziness, my lord—apathy of the mind. That defect is the fundamental cause of the success of the Conservative policy. It suits the qualities and the failings of the race; and countries have but the politics they deserve, someone said. Very true, for politics are the expression of a country’s inner mind. The apathetic must naturally be Tories, for they are slow at reforms, and stand in terror of social upheavals; you saw, before the storm, how far acquiescence and lethargy could go, you will soon see that the country will stand at your elbows in all your reforms. It is nonsense talking of democracy in England as long as the peerage is the goal of all drapers and ironmongers, and, had not the Almighty poured water spouts over the whole sham and deprived us of our artificial husks, we should in time have seen London perish as Athens, Rome and Constantinople. You have to make the first move, my lord, for in this country the masses imitate the upper classes. Bear this well in mind: we are essentially caddish, so, my lord, make use of the defect to save the country.”

CHAPTER VI

“You have taken the first step towards the plastic reform of London, my lord.”

“Then you think the party was a success?”

“A tremendous one! They have now grasped the idea that they have only their skin to cover them, and must therefore improve their appearance, as their artificial tournure has vanished.”

“What do you think of my excluding the old dowagers of Society?” Lionel was enjoying this freak of his more than anything he had yet done.

“Capital, my lord! Very brave of you. As long as you all invited them, they came, because they knew no better; now that you have banished them from festivities, they will retire. It is simply a question of time, in which a new atavism will be developed. Our Society must be taught that there is a fitting time for everything—for learning, and for playing; for sorrow and for abdication.”

“Perhaps, Dan, we shall make them see that in politics also there is an age for retiring; for we are doomed to be guided by dotards who will not acknowledge the necessity of a graceful exit on their part, and who are deaf to the broad hints given them.”

“Wait a little, my lord; Rome was not built in one day, and the greatest reforms have been effected by trifling incidents. Rest satisfied with your first triumph—it was complete. You had the right number of guests, the marble lounges were placed at the right angles of your reception-rooms; the whole thing was in good taste.”

“How did you like my idea of men carrying on their shoulders amphoras filled with champagne?—Rather novel and graceful, wasn’t it, Dan?”

“Charming! and the fruit baskets on boys’ heads were fetching, my lord. It is the first time I really enjoyed a peach or a bunch of grapes; it reminded me of the Lake of Como on a hot afternoon, lying down on the steps of the Villa Carlotta.”

“Yes, I really thought the whole picture was pleasing in perspective; the women reclined on their black marble couches with more grace than heretofore, which very probably inspired the men to move about more harmoniously.—You see, Dan, Gwendolen never came.”

Danford looked wistfully at his pupil, and imperceptibly shrugged his shoulders.

“Her father, when he came yesterday, told me he had not seen her since the storm. It appears she persists in closeting herself, and refuses to go out. Poor Gwen! It is abnormal, and her brain must give way sooner or later.”

“This is one victim of this new state of nature; there must be some more of these abandoned creatures who lost all joy and sympathy in life when the storm rent them of their clothes;—but as your lordship is aware, this is beyond my power. I have undertaken to show you how to know your friends, in which art you have made wonderful progress;—I only wish my colleagues could say as much of all their pupils.”

“Still, my dear fellow, things are looking brighter; I watched a few groups conversing yesterday, without the assistance of any guides, and Sir Richard Towerbridge actually remembered me five minutes after he had shaken hands with me. But we need more than this, Dick. It is all very well recognising one’s friends, though at present the method of doing so is only empirical; but we long for something more.”

“My lord, how unjust you are. Nothing new! when the Lord Chamberlain has announced through the telephone that no Levees nor any Drawing-rooms will be held during the season!”

“My dear Dan, something is lacking in this new Society. What is it?”

“My lord, the powers of the social guide are very limited; he throws out hints, as the sower throws the seed; after that is the great unknown. I will teach you how to use your eyes, how to move your limbs, how to remember, perhaps how to laugh, perchance how to cry, but I cannot teach you how to love. This is the hidden closet to which we have no key, for the very good reason that the door opens from within. In the silence of the night, in the peace of lovely gardens, when men are far and nature is near, listen to the melody singing from within that secret recess, and open the door. Then maybe you will see what I cannot show you, hear what I cannot make audible.”

“Do not trouble about me, dear fellow; I shall never love any mortal woman!”

“Is the Paphian already dead in you, my lord? Then indeed you are nearer to the goal than I ever believed. I hear the hoofs of your Arab pawing the ground of the courtyard.”

Danford looked out of the library window.

“Yes, it is your chariot. Watkins has carried out your idea to perfection, and I congratulate your lordship on having once more saved London from galling ridicule, in providing for its inhabitants this suitable mode of conveyance.”

“I think I have also arrived at relegating the automobile to country use.”

“There, I think you are wise. The morning is cool, the drive to Richmond will be lovely; my lord, I must say good-bye to you.”

“A ce soir, Dick.”

The dapper little artist left Lionel and was soon out of sight under the trees of Hyde Park, while Lionel jumped into his Roman chariot, took up the reins and dashed out of the courtyard. He drove down Park Lane, turned sharply the corner of Hyde Park, taking the straight road to Hammersmith.

Although charioteering was not a violent exercise like rowing, cricket or football, still it was exhilarating, and needed a firmness of posture, a suppleness in all movements which had given to Lord Somerville’s figure a grace formerly hampered by stiff collar, waistcoat, and top hat. This new fashion of driving was improving the physical appearance of the British male; for, the present charioteer was no more to be compared to the man who had jumped in and out of a hansom, than a mythological centaur could be contrasted with a rustic crossing a ferry on his cattle. The sluggish, indolent exponent of Masherdom fell down the very first time he took the reins into his hands; the rigid, unyielding representative of soldiery stiffened a little more, and managed to keep his balance, though the effect was ugly and the result, lumbago. But, little by little, the indolent straightened himself, the unbending relaxed his rigidity; and in a fortnight London could boast of a good average of chariot drivers, whom even Avilius Teres would not have disowned.

Lionel met many friends on his way to Richmond; it was the fashion to drive in the morning to neighbouring parks before luncheon. Here was Lord Roneldson, who had lost a stone since the storm. Poor old Harry! the first days must have been trying to him! The self-indulgent fop, incapable of the slightest mental or physical effort, had had no alternative between standing or falling; and only after many days of bitter experience, had he discovered his centre of gravity. There came along old Joe Watson, puffing and blowing, redder than ever. At his side drove Lord Petersham, who held his reins well in hand and felt his steed’s mouth as tactfully as he did many other things in life. He guided Watson through the labyrinth of London life, but he had often found his plebeian friend’s mouth harder to handle than any horse’s. Watson had been taken up by Petersham, and pulled through his election by him, for he was member for East Langton. Lord Petersham did Watson the signal honour of accepting heavy cheques from him before the storm, for which, in exchange, he gave him a lift up the social ladder. Watson in return helped his Mentor to directorships of several companies, and brought to his clubs all the bigwigs on the Stock Exchange. At times the noble Amphitrion muttered under his grey moustache, that they were infernal cads, but very soon his steely eyes preached common-sense to his tempestuous lips, bringing back to his mind the practical philosophy, “Make use of all,” which is, after all, but reading backwards, “Forgive everyone.” These two most antagonistic companions went arm in arm along Pall Mall, into clubs, Music Halls and all sorts of haunts in which a liberal education is afforded to all sorts of men. Watson was very proud of his vulgarity, which he called straightforwardness; he was equally vain of his insular ignorance, which he benignly termed patriotism; but of all things he was most proud of the shop in Oxford Street, where he had for years past walked up and down, asking the ladies what was their pleasure. He had a few decided opinions, or prejudices if you like, which hung round his plebeian form like labels, and which no Peer of the realm could have torn off: he hated clever women, recherché dinners, and foreign countries. His temper was strange; he was generally of an opposing turn of mind on all intellectual subjects and of the most agreeing disposition when conventional topics were on the tapis. He never spoke in the House, and no one spoke about him. Such men are surely the pillars of a party, for they never think, never interrupt, and are never thought of. They possess a few signposts in their brains, and rarely go wherever danger is posted up. Such men keep England together, as cement fastens the stones safely to one another, but, like cement, are ugly and thick. Petersham often kicked at this bundle of grotesqueness. Watson was so totally devoid of the discerning powers which graced his lordship’s individuality; he did not know Chambertin from Sauterne, took a Piccadilly wench for a Society Aspasia, and was sorely lacking in the sense of the ridiculous.

Since this new fashion of vehicle had come in, Petersham and Watson got on better together. There was a give-and-take in their present life which had never existed formerly. To obtain something or other under false pretences had been a code of morals closely interwoven with the Church Catechism and the State constitution, so that no loophole had been left through which one could see any other standpoint than one’s own. But since the contents of the shop in Oxford Street had vanished into thin air, as the chrysalis withers when the insect is formed, old Watson had lost all incentive to his pride; and old Petersham had equally lost all motive for his stinging epigrams directed at the thick-skinned Plutocrat. Charioteering through London soon showed these two types of distinct worlds that their safety depended more on their own initiative and prudence than on the police. Policemen, we know, had been dismissed, and every citizen, from the smallest child to the feeblest octogenarian, had to go through a course of thoroughfare gymnastics, so as to enable them to escape runaway horses; whilst lectures were given in Scotland Yard to instil into drivers’ minds the true sense of altruism and proper regard for the public’s safety. This new departure in outdoor polity had upset a good many pet prejudices of Watson, and knocked out a great deal of Petersham’s conceit.

Ah! There darted through Brompton Road Tom Hornsby with his comic little face cleanshaven. He was one of the few men who had taken at once to the chariot; his supple, nervous frame and perfect equipoise made him master of the art in a few hours. He was a satirist, Tom Hornsby! He had never succeeded in diplomacy, nor in his migration to the City jungle, and unable to control his outbursts of scurrilous wit, he had sharpened his tongue into a steel pen and edited the Weekly Mirror.

There were many more dashing along the Hammersmith Road on that lovely summer morning; some had been trained to soldiery, others to Parliamentarism, but the majority were inadequately provided with the suitable faculties with which to play the game of life. The soldiers were too spiritless, the politicians too bellicose. One little trifle had been omitted in the curriculum of a man’s education, but such a small item that it was hardly worth mentioning—for everyone agreed that to make a gentleman of a man was the great desideratum of college training—well, this little item neglected in all educations was: the training of life. This life-drill, by which all humanity is made akin, had been left out of educational programmes, and the results of such an omission had been painful; for men like Petersham and Watson would walk, dine, drink together, but they no more understood each other than if they had been two different species. Men were surprising and disappointing in this civilisation in which—

“Hatred is by far the longest pleasure;

Men love in haste, but detest at leisure.”

Men were at intervals Titans or monkeys. Hence the patchiness of life’s texture. Titan greeted monkey, the latter jeered while the former roared; and that was called Society.

The first fashionable hostess who followed Lionel’s hint to Society was the Ambassadress of Tartary. One morning she sat wearily in front of her Venetian mirror, resting her pensive head on her right hand. What endless hours had she spent before this same mirror formerly, combining artistic shades, using ingenious cosmetics to hide the damages done by time! Now, all these were of no earthly use; nature had stepped in and strongly advised women to have silent tête-à-tête with their inner souls. She then and there made up her mind that the lines round her eyes, and the discoloration of the flesh of her neck and arms should never more be the object of rude stares on the part of her guests, and she resolved never more to stand at the top of her staircase to greet her visitors. Of all places in the house that spot was the most unbecoming for complexion, owing to the light being badly distributed. The Marquise de Veralba represented one of the great nations of Europe, at the Court of St. James, and she felt that to her had been given the mission of teaching a lesson to Englishwomen. Orders were promptly given and speedily executed; carpenters and floral decorators were summoned to the marble couch of the Marquise, and after a few days the house was ready for the projected reception, which she intended to be a new move in social gatherings.

As Lionel and Dick walked up the staircase decorated with garlands of exotic flowers, they found, instead of their hostess, her social guide waiting to escort them through the vast rooms of the Embassy to an improvised bower of plants, rose trees and azaleas. There, on a floral lounge, reclined the Marquise. At first the visitors stood amazed before the scene mysteriously lighted by electric bulbs ensconced in the petals of flowers. Gradually they became conscious of her presence, and their attention was riveted by the beauty of her dark eyes; whilst her voice, subdued by restful and homogeneous surroundings, took her friends by surprise, as formerly they had been provoked at the shrillness of her tone, and the flurry with which she was wont to greet them at the top of the staircase, unceasingly fanning herself, whether it was summer or winter. Well, the fan had gone, like so many more useless things!

It was an interesting evening that one at Madame la Marquise’s. In the first place it revealed to an ignorant Society that a new beauty could be given to evanescent youth and departed charms. Then they realised that they had not made great progress in the art of observation and still had need of their guides; and having consciously, during the last weeks, lost a good deal of the old false pride, they talked indiscriminately to those standing or sitting near them, although they ignored the name, social standing, or banking account of the person they were addressing. Was not courtesy after all the best policy in an emergency? Thus acted Society—prompted by personal interest, it is true—but we are not to look too closely at the strings that move the limbs of human marionettes.

“That is all very well, Dick,” said Lionel, “but how will you hint to a waning beauty that a shady bower is the best place for her to ponder the vanities of this world and the greater glory of the next? You see, the Marquise has a long lineage of witty women behind her, and in this emergency her wit and taste have no more failed her than they deserted the brilliant women of the Renaissance who united the wisdom of life with intellectual supremacy.”

“Your lordship is right, there are no laws to enforce woman to resign her social post; but, her mirror is her assize, and it sits night and day in judgment over her declining bloom; whilst self-interest and opportunism will suggest to her many ways of avoiding ridicule. Mind you, my lord, I firmly believe that this new mode of life will keep us all young much longer, for we shall have to improve our personal appearance through diet, instead of reverting to unbending corsets and padded limbs, to restore the injuries done to the human figure by continual intemperance.”

The Earl, leaning on a porphyry column, gazed at his surroundings. He was struck by the loveliness and simplicity around him; the red-brocaded panels had vanished from the walls, and left the plain white wainscot, which of course had been repainted; all superficial luxury was gone, only a few lovely Louis XVI. tables remained in the room, whilst a few gold-caned settees were scattered about, and at right angles stood a few pink and black marble lounges.

“Danford, look at that woman over there talking to Tom Hornsby; whoever she may be, she has already acquired a firmness of footing, a single-mindedness of posture that really delights me. Still, Dan—no Gwendolen!”

“You seem to be very anxious about her, my lord. I heard last night from several lady guides, that many of the girls engaged last season could not bring themselves to meet the men they had chosen. You can hardly believe that the same girl who, a few weeks ago, fearlessly exposed all her moral ugliness and mental deficiency, could blush to-day at the idea of allowing her ‘fiancé’ to see her as God made her.”

“Do not remind me of that Inferno, Dan; you, my Virgil, must show me beauty, not disfigurement; purity, not indelicacy. But is this all we are able to do for ourselves?” and Lionel looked all around him. “We have no doubt arrived at a certain physical discipline. I grant you that the faddiest nincompoop has managed to pull himself together and could, at a stretch, run a chariot race with any champion of the Roman Empire. I also think that our social intercourse is taking a turn for the better; but you cannot deny that we are at a standstill. What is to happen next? We are completely isolated from the rest of the world; no one comes to England from abroad, since the storm, and no one goes out of the island.”

“Ah! only a matter of false pride on the part of the Britishers, my lord, and as to the foreigners not coming to England at present, I should give no thought to that. They very probably believe us to be the prey of a Boer invasion, and by this time every nation is celebrating in all their churches the disappearance of the British Empire.”

“You are always turning everything into a joke, my dear fellow; still, the problem remains the same: what are we going to do with our new state of nature? Then we have no newspapers! We know nothing of what is going on.”

“I think, my lord, that newspapers told us more of what was not going on than anything else. We have written enough; let us think, now that we are condemned to a sort of isolation. Now is your chance, my lord, and for your party to solve the problem; for no one can really help you out of this but yourselves.”

“You must not forget, Dick, that there are thousands of men and women without any work, owing to this breakdown of the factories. Those have to be thought of, or else we shall perish in an East-End invasion.”

“It is no worse than a general strike, my lord. I saw a few of the Music Hall artists of the Mile-End Road, Hackney and Poplar, and they all say the same thing: the people are not at all thinking of rioting; the injustice of their condition is robbed of its bitter sting, because they know all England and all classes to be in the same predicament. Besides, they do not believe for one minute that this condition will last, and are convinced there will be a recrudescence of luxury, and therefore work, to compensate their present loss a thousandfold.”

“Lucky state of bliss is that apathy, so wrongly called self-control! But I am asking for more, Dick, for I am not wholly satisfied with the remedies you have suggested to me, and I thirst for something fabulous.”

“Your lordship is fastidious, but I have told you before: we give hints, we do not develop theories. Look inwardly, my lord, and perhaps in that secret chamber of which I spoke to you will you see something to arrest your attention.”

CHAPTER VII

Lionel was not listening to his companion any longer; his mind had wandered from the East-End to the present scene, and gradually losing sight of his surroundings, his eyes lingered rapturously on a feminine form of unsurpassed beauty. Her elbow resting on an Etruscan vase, she leaned her soft cheek on the palm of her hand and looked up inquiringly at a portrait by Lely, representing the ancestress of one of our fashionable women. Lionel had never seen such grace, such simplicity—the word innocence fluttered on his lips, but soon vanished; he had rarely connected that quality with any of the women of his world. But, innocent or not, the form before him was faultless; the setting of the head on the shoulders perfect, the Grecian features radiantly pure. Who could she be? No matter, she was beauty, womanhood, that was sufficient, and it filled his heart with beatitude to gaze on such perfection without having to read the label attached to it. Dick was right, no guide could enlighten him as to what were his feelings. He had never seen her before; no doubt, she was a foreigner landed here on the day of the storm. Greece alone could have given birth to such a symmetric form and such harmony of movements. He moved away from his porphyry column as in a trance, leaving Danford to converse with a celebrity who wanted to know who someone else was; on his approaching the unknown beauty, his eyes lingered more intently on her exquisite face, and he contemplated her lovely hazel eyes shaded by long dark eyelashes. It was the only thing a man could contemplate now—a woman’s face; for, however demoralised a man might be, he defied him from ever behaving indelicately to a woman in the state of nature. As he came close to her, she dropped her eyelids and levelled her gaze to his; they looked into each other’s eyes—and they loved.

“Allow me to lead you to a lounge,—you seem tired.”

“Thank you, I am not tired,” answered a musical voice; and her velvety eyes drank deep at the fountain of love that flowed from his eyes. “I was far away, transported into the world evoked by this picture. I tried to divine the thoughts of this notorious beauty at the Stuarts’ Court, and the vision became so vividly real, that I could see her take up her blue scarf and raise it in front of her face as she blushed in looking at my nakedness.”

“I should have thought the model who sat for this portrait could have easily beheld our mythological world without having to lift her scarf to hide her confusion. I do not think she was renowned for the purity of her life, nor for the nicety of her language.”

“The more reason for her inability to look nature in the face. Nature is too amazing to those trained to artifice. The glory of a sunset would be blinding to those who never had seen its reflection but on houses or pavements.”

How adorably sensitive was her mouth; he remembered having seen, in Florence, expressions like hers. The divine Urbinite had excelled in delineating these touching faces.

“It is getting late. If you are thinking of leaving, will you allow me to escort you?” She laid her hand on his, and without a word they left the room.

One by one the guests returned to the secret bower to say a courteous adieu to the Marquise—a thing which formerly had not been frequently witnessed—it had been so irritating to see that perpetual grin on her lips, that incessant fanning, and, above all, to watch her sliding scale of good-byes, which had become alarmingly tedious.

The Adam and Eve of “London regained” slowly descended the marble staircase, passed through the hall, out of the front door, and found themselves on the pavement as unconcerned about their surroundings as if they had dropped straight from a planet. They gazed at each other, and in that luminous orb of the visual organ, they discovered the only world for which it was worth living or dying.

“I do not know who you are, and I do not desire to know, until you have answered my questions. This I know, that you love me; my love is too great not to be echoed by yours. What we feel for one another is above all worldly considerations, what we can give each other is beyond what the world can give or take away. Will you accept the life devotion of a man who has never loved until this day? I blush at what I used to call love—and shall never profane your ears with a recital of what men call their conquests.”

“I accept the gift of your heart and of your life, and I give you mine in exchange. I have never loved either.” She lifted her pure face to his; a cloud rushed across the sky, leaving the pale moon to illumine the young couple walking in silence in their dreamland. After a long pause Lionel spoke.

“Where shall I escort you? Where is your home?”

“Will you take me to Hertford Street, No. 110?”

“Gwendolen!”

“Lionel!”

And both looked down, for the first time suffused with shame at discovering their identity. Confusion overwhelmed him, not at their present state, but at the sudden thought of their past lives of indelicacy. He was the first to break the silence, for man, being essentially practical, must at once know more about what he finds out; and an Englishman above all must necessarily investigate his newly-conquered dominion. Perhaps this is the reason for their being such good colonists; they do not gaze long at the stars and sunsets of a new Continent, but very promptly turn to business, and to what they can make out of their discovery.

“What have you been doing all these last weeks, Gwen?”

She told him what her occupations had been; they were limited, it was true, but they had helped to open her eyes on a few of life’s problems.

“Have you been shut up in your room ever since the storm?”

“Nearly, with the exception of the day of the first exodus, when I felt I must either have some air, or die. I have been out once or twice since, at unearthly hours of the morning; but this is the first party I have been at—I could not risk meeting you. I had pictured our meeting very differently from what it has been; I dreaded it, and little imagined this would be the end of it.”

“No, sweetheart,” interrupted her lover, “you mean, the beginning of our life. Tell me all you did at home.”

“I have studied more, my dear Lionel, in these last weeks than in all my life before, including my school days. My books have been the sun rising and setting, the stars and the birds’ twitterings; I have thought of poetry, philosophy, and history—”

“Poor Gwen, how dull it must have been! Fancy you studying the works of nature, and imagining that you are a philosopher!”

“You are cruel, Lionel.”

“Forgive me, Gwen. I am more than cruel, I am unjust, for I am the last who ought to scoff or reprove. I stand here as a repentant sinner, only begging to kiss your hand and to be allowed to gaze on your beauty.”

“Lionel, believe me, I thought a great deal.”

“Could you not telephone to your friends?”