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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 party at Number 402,” I insisted. “The thing’s impossible.”

“Very well, then; I’m a liar, and that ends it.” He wheeled again and began to walk his horse sullenly forward. “‘Oo’s blind this time?” he demanded, coming to a standstill in front of the house.

An awning stretched down from the front door and across the pavement, where two policemen guarded the alighting guests from pressure by a small but highly curious crowd. Overhead, the first-floor windows had been flung wide; the rooms within were aflame with light; and, as I grasped the rail of the splashboard, and, straightening myself up, gazed over the cab-roof with a wild surmise into the driver’s face, a powerful but invisible string band struck up the ‘Country Girl’ Lancers!

“‘Oo’s a liar now?” He jerked his whip towards the number “402” staring down at me from the illuminated pane above the awning.

“But it ‘is my own house!” I gasped.

“Hoh?” said he. “Well, it may be. I don’t conteraddict.”

“Here, give me my bag!” I fumbled in my pocket for his fare.

“Cook giving a party? Well, you’re handy for the Wild West out here–good old Earl’s Court!” He jerked his whip again towards the awning as a North American Indian in full war-paint passed up the steps and into the house, followed by the applause of the crowd.

I must have overpaid the man extravagantly, for his tone changed suddenly as he examined the coins in his hand. “Look here, guvnor, if you want any little ‘elp, I was barman one time at the ‘Elephant’–“