—a general speculation. He reads the report of a wife unfaithful to her husband who has been fighting in South Africa, and he says: "You can't trust a woman out of your sight . . . Reckon he didn't beat her oft enow . . . A spaniel, a woman, and a walnut tree, the otter you beat 'em the faithfuller they be"—and many more speculations of a general kind.
But his son, an office boy, his overseer, a smart London born workman, the clerks in his office, his general manager, the directors of the Company he serves; these sit morning after morning in their city-going trains, with the sheets held up before them, swallowing "news" as they swallow quick lunches later on. These things pass through their quiescent minds as under the eyes of the clubman that string of vehicles: "The Play that Failed; A Chat with the Manager"—"Varieties in Weather"—"Scorned Woman's Vengeance"—"'Objected to Fireguards'"—"Comedy in the County Court"—"Slavery to Drugs; Alarming Growth of the Opium Habit"—"Country's Loneliness; Mental Isolation of the Cultured"—"Infant Motorists; The Automobile as an Adjunct to the Nursery"—"Home Rule for Egypt; Khedive's interest in an Organised Agitation"—"Married to a Scoundrel"—"Batch of Stabbing Cases". All these things flicker through the dazed and quiescent minds without leaving a trace, forgotten as soon as the first step is made upon the platform at Mark Lane or the Mansion House Stations—as much forgotten as any telegraph pole that flickered past the train window out
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