is song. I remember thinking that the doggerel might have been the
creation of my fat contributor from Stettin, Herr Mitmann, and that if
the music-hall public had reached this stage, I must have been
oversensitive in my somewhat hostile and critical attitude toward the
writings of that ponderous Teuton. I thought that for once _The Mass_
would almost lag behind its readers; though in the beginning I had
regarded Herr Mitmann's proposals as going beyond even our limits.

We left the hall while its roof echoed the jingling tail-piece of
another popular ditty, which tickled Beatrice's fancy hugely. In it the
singer expressed, without exaggeration and without flattery, a good
deal of the popular London attitude toward the pursuit of pleasure and
the love of pleasure resorts. I recall phrases like: "Give my regards to
Leicester Square--Greet the girls in Regent Street--Tell them in Bond
Street we'll soon meet"--and, "Give them my love in the Strand."

The atmosphere reeked now of spirits, smoke, and overheated humanity.
The voice of the great audience was hoarse and rather bestial in
suggestion. The unescorted women began to make their invitations
dreadfully pressing. Doubtless my mood coloured the whole tawdry
business, but I remember finding those last few minutes distinctly
revolting, and experiencing a genuine relief when we stepped into the
outer air.

But the lights were just as brilliant outside, the pavements as thronged
as the carpeted promenade, its faces almost as thickly painted as those
of the lady who wished her "regards" given to Leicester Square, or the
gentleman who had assured us that nobody wanted to fight England,
because England had the "dibs."

Beatrice was now in feverishly high spirits. She no longer purred
contentment; rather it seemed to me she panted in avid excitement, while
pouring out a running fire of comment upon the dress and appearance of
passers-by, as we drove to another palace of gilt and plush--a sort of
magnified Pullman car, with decorations that made one's eyes ache. Here
we partook of quite a complicated champagne supper. I dare say fifty
pounds was spent in that room after the gorgeously uniformed attendants
had begun their chant of "Time, gentlemen, please; time!" which
signified that the closing hour had arrived.

Beatrice kept up her excitement--or perhaps the champagne did this for
her--until our cab was half-way across Chelsea Bridge. Then she lay back
in her corner, and,