s and get our Romance elsewhere. So
everything has to suit itself to its own time--Bohemianism with the
rest.

One essential quality there is, however, in this Vie de Boheme that
will never alter. It demands that those who live it, shall be careless
of the morrow; it expects an absolute liberty of soul, let manners
and conditions be what they may. You will still find that; you will
always find it. Certain souls must be free and they always seek out
the spots of the earth where social restrictions, social exigencies,
are least of all in force. They live where life is freest; they eat
their meals where it is not compulsory for them to be on their best
behaviour. You cannot expect the Bohemian to be a slave, and to
customs least of all. The only well-ruled line that he can follow
is the customary prompting of his own instinct.

Such a spot--an ideal corner of all unconventionality--is Soho. They
say that Greek Street is the worst street in London. You must say
something is the worst, to show how bad and good things are. Then
why not Greek Street? But for no definite reason. It is really no
worse than many another and, with a few more lamps to light its
darkened pathways, it might earn that reputation for respectability
which would endear it to the most exacting of British matrons. All
the doubtful deeds are only done in dark streets. Light is the sole
remedy; you will see crime retreating before it like some crawling
vermin that dares not show its face. Therefore, why blame Greek
Street and those who live there? The county council are to blame that
they do not cleanse the place with light.

Bad or good, though--whatever it may be--it is part of Soho; the
refuge of Bohemianism to which district Traill brought Sally Bishop
on that Thursday evening.

Outside the restaurant in Old Compton Street with its latticed
windows, and its almost spotless white lintels and the low-roofed
doorway, a barrel-organ was twirling tunes to which two or three
girls danced a clumsy step. In the doorway itself, at the top of the
precipitous flight of stairs that led immediately to the room below,
stood Madame, the proprietor's wife--ready to welcome all who came.
Her round, French, good-natured face beamed when she saw Traill, and
her little brown eyes gleamed with genuine approval as they swept
over Sally.

"Bon soir, Monsieur; bon soir, Madame."

Every lady is Madame, however many during the week Monsieur may
choose to bring, and she m