s the covering of the world here? Mud. Yes,
call it another name if you like; but it is still mud. Of course, it is
very useful; it grows food. Away in Africa the world is covered in many
places by sand; but it is only another form of mud. Grind it
sufficiently fine, and it becomes slime--mud. But we must not grumble;
it grows food. It is not exactly the same as you have here; but its
qualities are similar. It goes to making blood, and bone, and sinew.
Essentially, it is the same; superficially only, it is different."

"But I was thinking of men and women. The characteristics of the people
who live near the Nile are different from those of us living here in
England."

"Again, how deep is the difference?"

"I am afraid I do not quite follow you."

"And yet the thought is very simple. The sand of Sahara, of Libya is
different from your Devonshire soil. Just so; but, as I said, it grows
food. It contains the same vital elements. The Arab is different from
the Englishman; yes, but how deep is the difference? His skin is darker,
true; he conveys his thoughts by different sounds, true. Even his
thoughts may on the surface be different; but dig down deep, and you
find the same elemental characteristics. The Eastern eats and sleeps, so
does an Englishman. The Eastern loves and hates, so does an Englishman.
The Eastern ponders over life's mysteries and wonders about the great
unknown, so does the Englishman. In a less degree, I will admit, but he
does. Pull aside the tawdry excrescences, Mr. Briarfield, and all places
are alike, all men are alike. All men, all climes, all ages tell the
same story."

"And the story? What is it?" asked Briarfield.

"Ah, I will not try and put that into words."

"Why?"

"It's not worth while."

Briarfield was silent for a moment; he was not quite sure whether the
man was in earnest or not.

"Have you been in England long?" he asked presently.

"Three months."

"In what part, if I may ask?"

"London."

"And you like London?"

"Yes--no--London is hell."

He spoke quietly, yet there was a strange intensity in his tones.

"Pardon me," he went on after a moment's hesitation, "I do not
particularise when I say that London is hell. It only appears more like
hell than other places, because there are more people there."

"You are alluding to the east of London?"

"And to the west. To the east most, perhaps, because the people are more
real there. There is less artificiality, less v