ougham. A night for walking, thought the
party: and a fine night for sleeping out of doors, thought the
road-watchman close by, watching them and meditatively smoking behind his
barricade hung with danger-lanterns. Overhead rode the round moon.

It is the fashion to cry down London, and I have taken my part in the
chorus; but always--be the absence never so short--I come back to her with
the same lift of the heart. Why did I ever leave her? What had I gone
a-seeking in Ambleteuse?--a place where a man leaves his room only to
carry his writing-desk with him and plant it by the sea. London offered
the only true recreation. In London a man might turn the key on himself
and work for so long as it pleased him. But let him emerge, and--pf!--the
jostle of the streets shook his head clear of the whole stuffy business.
No; decidedly I would not return to Madame Peyron's. London for me, until
my comedy should be written, down to the last word on the last page!

We were half way down the Cromwell Road when I took this resolution, and
at once I was aware of a gathering of carriages drawn up in line ahead and
close beside the pavement. At intervals the carriages moved forward a few
paces and the line closed up; but it stretched so far that I soon began to
wonder which of my neighbours could be entertaining on a scale so
magnificent.

"What number did you say, sir?" the cabman asked through his trap.

"Number 402," I called up.

"Blest if I can get alongside the pavement then," he grumbled.
He was a surly man.

"Never mind that. Pull up opposite Number 402 and I'll slip between.
I've only my bag to carry."

"Didn't know folks was so gay in these outlyin' parts," he
commented sourly, and closed the trap, but presently opened it again.
His horse had dropped to a walk. "Did you say four-nought-two?" he asked.

"Oh, confound it--yes!" I was growing impatient.

He pulled up and began to turn the horse's head.

"Hi! What are you doing?"

"Goin' back to the end of the line--back to take our bloomin' turn," he
answered wearily. "Four-nought-two, you said, didn't you?"

"Yes, yes; are you deaf? What have I to do with this crowd?"

"I hain't deaf, but I got eyes. Four-nought-two's where the horning's up,
that's all."

"The horning? What's that?"

"Oh, I'm tired of egsplanations. A horning's a horning, what they put up
when they gives a party; leastways," he added reflectively, "_Hi_ don't."

"But there's no