ARABIAN NIGHTS FOR TURGIS

"What does matter then?" asked Mrs, Pelumpton
triumphantly.

No doubt her husband could have told her, but he did
not choose to; he merely made a contemptuous noise,
and then took up the evening paper. Turgis decided to
go to bed. It was not late, but there was nothing to do.
He was tired of talking to the Pelumptons, though he
felt vaguely grateful to them, or at least to Mrs.
Pelumpton, for taking an interest in him. What they
actually said did not mean much to him—for he did
not want any of their silly hobbies and had not the
slightest desire to fee like either Edgar or Park—but it
was pleasant to feel that somebody was interested in
him. His father took no interest in him, hadn't done
for years, and he had no other near relations. They
didn't care much about him at the office. Even Poppy-
with-the-fringe had kept away from him lately, and the
others simply took him for granted. He had no friends.
He was just a chap in the crowd. Nearly all his time
away from the office was spent in a crowd somewhere,
getting back to his lodgings in the packed Tube, re-
turning to the thronged streets afterwards, perhaps
eating in some crowded place, then waiting in a queue
to get in a picture theatre, making one of a huge
audience, wandering along the lamp-lit pavements, and
he was for ever surrounded by strange, indifferent or
hostile faces, looking into millions of eyes that never lit
up with any gleam of recognition, and spending hour
after hour in the very thick of packed humanity with-
out exchanging a single word with anybody. His exist-
ence was noticed only when he bought something, when
he turned himself into a customer.

And yet, of course, this was not entirely true. There