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sovereigns on their books, and I was abashed by my
ignorance of the specialized articles which I was order-
ing. Equilibrium of behaviour had perhaps been
more difficult at the bootmaker's; so I decided to go
to Kipward's first.

Emerging from Charing Cross I felt my personality
somehow diluted. At Baldock Wood Station there
had been no doubt that I was going up to towa in my
best dark blue suit, and London had been respectfully
arranged at the other end of the line. But in Trafalgar
Square my gentlemanly uniqueness had diminished
to something almost nonentitive.

Had I been able to analyse my psychological con-
dition I could have traced this sensation to the fact
that my only obvious connections with the metropolis
were as follows: Mr. Pennett in Lincoln's Inn Fields
(he was beginning to give me up as a bad job) and
the few shops where I owed money for books and
clothes. No one else in London was aware of my
existence. I felt half-inclined to go into the National
Gallery, but there wasn't enough time for that, I had
been to the British Museum once and the mere thought
of it now made me feel bored and exhausted. Yet I
vaguely knew that I ought to go to such places, in
the same way that I knew I ought to read Paradise Lost
and The PilgrMs Progress. But there never seemed to
be time for such edifications, and the Kreisler concert
was quite enough for one day.

So I asserted my independence by taking a hansom
to the tailor's, which was some distance along Oxford
Street. I wasn't very keen on taxicabs, though the
streets were full of them now.

The lower half of Kipward & Son's shop window
was fitted with a fine wire screening, on which the
crowns and vultures of several still undethroned