g, Mr. Dealtry."

"Nice evening."

"Evening."

Mr. Dealtry, a fellow clerk, passed on, and Leonard stood wondering
whether he would take the tram as far as a penny would take him, or
whether he would walk. He decided to walk--it is no good giving in,
and he had spent money enough at Queen's Hall--and he walked over
Westminster Bridge, in front of St. Thomas's Hospital, and through
the immense tunnel that passes under the South-Western main line at
Vauxhall. In the tunnel he paused and listened to the roar of the
trains. A sharp pain darted through his head, and he was conscious of
the exact form of his eye sockets. He pushed on for another mile, and
did not slacken speed until he stood at the entrance of a road called
Camelia Road which was at present his home.

Here he stopped again, and glanced suspiciously to right and left,
like a rabbit that is going to bolt into its hole. A block of flats,
constructed with extreme cheapness, towered on either hand. Farther down
the road two more blocks were being built, and beyond these an old house
was being demolished to accommodate another pair. It was the kind
of scene that may be observed all over London, whatever the
locality--bricks and mortar rising and falling with the restlessness of
the water in a fountain as the city receives more and more men upon her
soil. Camelia Road would soon stand out like a fortress, and command,
for a little, an extensive view. Only for a little. Plans were out for
the erection of flats in Magnolia Road also. And again a few years, and
all the flats in either road might be pulled down, and new buildings, of
a vastness at present unimaginable, might arise where they had fallen.

"Evening, Mr. Bast."

"Evening, Mr. Cunningham."

"Very serious thing this decline of the birth-rate in Manchester."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Very serious thing this decline of the birth-rate in Manchester,"
repeated Mr. Cunningham, tapping the Sunday paper, in which the calamity
in question had just been announced to him.

"Ah, yes," said Leonard, who was not going to let on that he had not
bought a Sunday paper.

"If this kind of thing goes on the population of England will be
stationary in 1960."

"You don't say so."

"I call it a very serious thing, eh?"

"Good-evening, Mr. Cunningham."

"Good-evening, Mr. Bast."

Then Leonard entered Block B of the flats, and turned, not upstairs,
but down, into what is known to house agents as a semi-basement,