sedately through the London streets in the late
evening twilight, leaning expectantly across the doors of the hansom and
pulling carefully at his white gloves. Other hansoms flashed past him,
the occupant of each with his mind fixed on one idea--dinner. He was one
of a million of people who were about to dine, or who had dined, or who
were deep in dining.

He was so famished, so weak for food of any quality, that the galloping
horse in the hansom seemed to crawl. The lights of the Embankment passed
like the lamps of a railroad station as seen from the window of an
express; and while his mind was still torn between the choice of a thin
or thick soup or an immediate attack upon cold beef, he was at the door,
and the chasseur touched his cap, and the little chasseur put the wicker
guard over the hansom's wheel. As he jumped out he said, "Give him
half-a-crown," and the driver called after him, "Thank you, sir."

It was a beautiful world, this world outside of the iron bars. Every one
in it contributed to his pleasure and to his comfort. In this world he
was not starved nor manhandled. He thought of this joyfully as he leaped
up the stairs, where young men with grave faces and with their hands
held negligently behind their backs bowed to him in polite surprise at
his speed. But they had not been starved on condensed milk. He threw his
coat and hat at one of them, and came down the hall fearfully and quite
weak with dread lest it should not be real. His voice was shaking when
he asked Ellis if he had reserved a table. The place was all so real, it
must be true this time. The way Ellis turned and ran his finger down
the list showed it was real, because Ellis always did that, even when he
knew there would not be an empty table for an hour. The room was crowded
with beautiful women; under the light of the red shades they looked kind
and approachable, and there was food on every table, and iced drinks in
silver buckets.

It was with the joy of great relief that he heard Ellis say to his
underling, "Numero cinq, sur la terrace, un couvert." It was real at
last. Outside, the Thames lay a great gray shadow. The lights of the
Embankment flashed and twinkled across it, the tower of the House of
Commons rose against the sky, and here, inside, the waiter was hurrying
toward him carrying a smoking plate of rich soup with a pungent
intoxicating odor.

And then the ragged palms, the glaring sun, the immovable peaks, and
the white sur