had no tea."

For that little incident had impressed the three women more than might
be supposed. It remained as a goblin footfall, as a hint that all is not
for the best in the best of all possible worlds, and that beneath these
superstructures of wealth and art there wanders an ill-fed boy, who has
recovered his umbrella indeed, but who has left no address behind him,
and no name.

CHAPTER VI

WE are not concerned with the very poor. They are unthinkable and only
to be approached by the statistician or the poet. This story deals
with gentlefolk, or with those who are obliged to pretend that they are
gentlefolk.

The boy, Leonard Bast, stood at the extreme verge of gentility. He was
not in the abyss, but he could see it, and at times people whom he knew
had dropped in, and counted no more. He knew that he was poor, and would
admit it; he would have died sooner than confess any inferiority to
the rich. This may be splendid of him. But he was inferior to most rich
people, there is not the least doubt of it. He was not as courteous
as the average rich man, nor as intelligent, nor as healthy, nor as
lovable. His mind and his body had been alike underfed, because he was
poor, and because he was modern they were always craving better food.
Had he lived some centuries ago, in the brightly coloured civilisations
of the past, he would have had a definite status, his rank and his
income would have corresponded. But in his day the angel of Democracy
had arisen, enshadowing the classes with leathern wings, and
proclaiming, "All men are equal--all men, that is to say, who possess
umbrellas," and so he was obliged to assert gentility, lest he slip
into the abyss where nothing counts, and the statements of Democracy are
inaudible.

As he walked away from Wickham Place, his first care was to prove that
he was as good as the Miss Schlegels. Obscurely wounded in his pride, he
tried to wound them in return. They were probably not ladies. Would real
ladies have asked him to tea? They were certainly ill-natured and cold.
At each step his feeling of superiority increased. Would a real lady
have talked about stealing an umbrella? Perhaps they were thieves
after all, and if he had gone into the house they would have clapped a
chloroformed handkerchief over his face. He walked on complacently as
far as the Houses of Parliament. There an empty stomach asserted itself,
and told him that he was a fool.

"Evening, Mr. Bast."

"Evenin