“Warm,” said the big man conversationally.

“Unavoidably, with so fine an audience,” replied Mr. Clarkson, with his grateful smile for any sign of friendliness.

“Like it warm?” asked the big man, turning upon Mr. Clarkson, as though he had said he preferred babies scolloped.

“Well, I rather enjoy the sense of common humanity,” said Mr. Clarkson, apologising.

“Enjoy common humanity?” said the big man, mopping his head.  “Can’t say I do.  ’Cos why, I was born perticler.”

For a moment Mr. Clarkson was tempted to claim a certain fastidiousness himself.  But he refrained, and only remarked, “What is a Beauty Show?”

The big man turned slowly to contemplate him again, and then, slowly turning back, regarded his empty pipe with sad attention.

“’Ear that, Albert?” he whispered at last, leaning over to a smart little fellow in front, who was dressed in a sportsmanlike manner, and displayed a large brass horseshoe and hunting crop stuck sideways in his tie.

“The ignorance of the upper classes is somethink shockin’,” the sportsman replied, imitating Mr. Clarkson’s Oxford accent.  Then turning back half an eye upon Mr. Clarkson, like a horse that watches its rider, he added, “You wait and see, old cock, same as the Honourable Asquith.”

“Isn’t the retort a trifle middle-aged?” suggested Mr. Clarkson, with friendly cheerfulness.

“Who’s that he’s callin’ middle-aged?” cried a girl, sharply facing round, and removing the sportsman’s arm from her waist.

“I only meant,” pleaded Mr. Clarkson, “that an obsolescent jest is, like middle-age, occasionally vapid, possessing neither the interest of antiquity nor the freshness of surprise.”

“Very well, then,” said the girl, flouncing back and seeking Albert’s arm again; “you just keep your tongue to yourself, same as me mine, or I’ll surprise you!”

At that moment the rising curtain revealed a cinematograph scene, representing a bull-dog which stole a mutton chop, was at once pursued by a policeman and the village population, rushed down streets and round corners, leapt through a lawyer’s office, ran up the side of a house, followed by all his pursuers, and was finally discovered in a child’s cot, where the child, with one arm round his neck, was endeavouring to make him say grace before meat.  The audience was profoundly moved.  Cries of “Bless his ’eart!” and “Good old Ogden!” rang through the house.

“Great!” said the big man.

“It illustrates,” replied Mr. Clarkson, “the popular sympathy with the fugitive, combined with the public’s love of vicarious piety.”

“Fine dog,” said the sportsmanly Albert.

“It was a clever touch,” Mr. Clarkson agreed, “to introduce so hideous a creature immediately before a Beauty Show.  The strange thing is that the dog’s ugliness only enhanced the sympathetic affection of the audience.  Yet beauty leads us by a single hair.”