r, he said, for the
evening. We walked together around into the Strand. "Well, good-bye,"
said Mr. Walpole, extending his hand, "I've got to beat it now."

There was an awesome sort of place where Thackeray went, you remember,
where he was scared of the waiters. This probably was not the Reform
Club, as he was very much at home there and loved the place. However,
just the outside of this "mausoleum" in Pall Mall scared Mr. Hopkinson
Smith, who had been inside a few clubs here and there, and who spoke,
in a sketch of London, of its "forbidding" aspect, "a great, square,
sullen mass of granite, frowning at you from under its heavy browed
windows--an aloof, stately, cold and unwelcome sort of place."

An aristocratic functionary, probably a superannuated member of
Parliament, placed me under arrest at the door, and in a vast, marble
pillared hall I was held on suspicion to await the arrival of Mr.
Belloc.

A large, brawny man he is, with massive shoulders, a prizefighter's
head, a fine, clean shaven face and a bull neck. Somehow he suggested
to me--though I do not clearly remember the picture--the portrait of
William Blake by Thomas Phillips, R.A., in the National Portrait
Gallery, frequently reproduced in books.

He gives your hand a hearty wrench, turns and strides ahead of you into
another room. You--and small boys in buttons, with cards and letters
on platters, to whom he pays no attention--trot after him. A driving,
forceful, dominating character, apparently. Looks at his watch
frequently. Perpetually up and down from town, he says, and
continually rushing about London. Keen on the job, evidently, all the
while.

He does not know how far you are acquainted with England; "there is a
wonderful lot of things to be seen in the island." Tells you all sorts
of unusual places to go; how, somewhere in the north, you can walk
along a Roman wall for ever so long, "a wonderful experience." Makes
your head spin, he knows so much that you never thought of about
England.

Discussing a tremendous meeting later on, where all the literary
nobility of London are to be with you, he follows you down the steps
when you go. Later forgets, in the crush of his affairs, all about
this arrangement. Then sends you telegrams and basketfuls of letters
of apology, with further invitations.

"Here you are, sir! All the winners! One penny." This had been the
cry of the news lads but the week before.

"England to fight! H