At the Omnibus Theatre they were playing a comedy called Good-night, Charlie, and there they were, rows of photographs with Charlie in pajamas and a pillowcase, and two ladies in two beds, and an old gentleman in a Bath chair--all doing the most natural things with that complete air of unreality that theatrical photographs always present. Out of the twirling door of the Omnibus Restaurant came two young men arguing, I most clearly remember, about some hair-restorer. They were quite vexed with one another, and then, in through the twirling door there pushed a disdainful stout lady with bright yellow hair, and a very thin old man, who was shivering with the cold. And it was cold. The snow, very gently, very softly, very kindly, was beginning to fall again.
Still on fire with my strange and
