and walked straight at me—still knitting with downcast eyes—and only just as I began to think of getting out of her way, as you would for a somnambulist, stood still, and looked up. Her dress was as plain as an umbrella–cover, and she turned round without a word and preceded me into a waiting–room. I gave my name, and looked about. Deal table in the middle, plain chairs all round the walls, on one end a large shining map, marked with all the colours of a rainbow. There was a vast amount of red—good to see at any time, because one knows that some real work is done in there, a deuce of a lot of blue, a little green, smears of orange, and, on the East Coast, a purple patch, to show where the jolly pioneers of progress drink the jolly lager–beer. However, I wasn’t going into any of these. I was going into the yellow. Dead in the centre. And the river was there—fascinating—deadly—like a snake. Ough! A door opened, a white–haired secretarial head, but wearing a compassionate expression, appeared, and a skinny forefinger beckoned me into the sanctuary. Its light was dim, and a heavy writing–desk squatted in the middle. From behind that structure came out an impression of pale plumpness in a frock–coat. The great man himself. He was five feet six, I should judge, and had his grip on the handle–end of ever so many millions. He shook hands, I fancy, murmured vaguely, was satisfied with my French. Bon voyage.
“In about forty–five seconds I found myself again in the waiting–room with the compassionate secretary, who, full of desolation and sympathy, made me sign some document. I believe I undertook amongst
