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I confessed that I was bewildered. He smiled. `You may,’ he said, `have heard of the Anglo-American Social Bureau?’ I had not. He explained to me that of the thousands of Americans who annually pass through England there are many hundreds who have no English friends. In the old days they used to bring letters of introduction. But the English are so inhospitable that these letters are hardly worth the paper they are written on. `Thus,’ said Le Ros, `the A.A.S.B. supplies a long-felt want. Americans are a sociable people, and most of them have plenty of money to spend. The A.A.S.B. supplies them with English friends. Fifty per cent. of the fees is paid over to the friends. The other fifty is retained by the A.A.S.B. I am not, alas, a director. If I were, I should be a very rich man indeed. I am only an employe’. But even so I do very well. I am one of the seers-off.’

Again I asked for enlightenment. `Many Americans,’ he said, `cannot afford to keep friends in England. But they can all afford to be seen off. The fee is only five pounds (twenty-five dollars) for a single traveller; and eight pounds (forty dollars) for a party of two or more. They send that in to the Bureau, giving the date of their departure, and a description by which the seer-off can identify them on the platform. And then–well, then they are seen off.’

`But is it worth it?’ I exclaimed. `Of course it is worth it,’ said Le Ros. `It prevents them from feeling “out of it.” It earns them the respect of the guard. It saves them from being despised by their fellow-passengers–the people who are going to be on the boat. It gives them a footing for the whole voyage. Besides, it is a great pleasure in itself. You saw me seeing that young lady off. Didn’t you think I did it beautifully?’ `Beautifully,’ I admitted. `I envied you. There was I–‘ `Yes, I can imagine. There were you, shuffling from foot to foot, staring blankly at your friend, trying to make conversation. I know. That’s how I used to be myself, before I studied, and went into the thing professionally. I don’t say I’m perfect yet. I’m still a martyr to platform fright. A railway station is the most difficult of all places to act in, as you have discovered for yourself.’ `But,’ I said with resentment, `I wasn’t trying to act. I really felt.’ `So did I, my boy,’ said Le Ros. `You can’t act without feeling. What’s his name, the Frenchman–Diderot, yes–said you could; but what did he know about it? Didn’t you see those tears in my eyes when the train started? I hadn’t forced them. I tell you I was moved. So were you, I dare say. But you couldn’t have pumped up a tear to prove it. You can’t express your feelings. In other words, you can’t act. At any rate,’ he added kindly, `not in a railway station.’ `Teach me!’ I cried. He looked thoughtfully at me. `Well,’ he said at length, `the seeing-off season is practically over. Yes, I’ll give you a course. I have a good many pupils on hand already; but yes,’ he said, consulting an ornate note-book, `I could give you an hour on Tuesdays and Fridays.’

His terms, I confess, are rather high. But I don’t grudge the investment.