“Let us go,” said Oro.  “Your officers of order are good; the rest is not good.”

Later we found ourselves opposite to the doors of a famous restaurant where a magnificent and gigantic commissionaire helped ladies from motor-cars, receiving in return money from the men who attended on them.  We entered; it was the hour of dinner.  The place sparkled with gems, and the naked backs of the women gleamed in the electric light.  Course followed upon course; champagne flowed, a fine band played, everything was costly; everything was, in a sense, repellent.

“These are the wealthy citizens of a nation engaged in fighting for its life,” remarked Oro to me, stroking his long beard.  “It is interesting, very interesting.  Let us go.”

We went out and on, passing a public-house crowded with women who had left their babies in charge of children in the icy street.  It was a day of Intercession for the success of England in the war.  This was placarded everywhere.  We entered, or, rather, Oro did, I following him, one of the churches in the Strand where an evening service was in progress.  The preacher in the pulpit, a very able man, was holding forth upon the necessity for national repentance and self-denial; also of prayer.  In the body of the church exactly thirty-two people, most of them elderly women, were listening to him with an air of placid acceptance.

“The priest talks well, but his hearers are not many,” said Oro.  “Let us go.”

We came to the flaunting doors of a great music-hall and passed through them, though to others this would have been impossible, for the place was filled from floor to roof.  In its promenades men were drinking and smoking, while gaudy women, painted and low-robed, leered at them.  On the stage girls danced, throwing their legs above their heads.  Then they vanished amidst applause, and a woman in a yellow robe, who pretended to be tipsy, sang a horrible and vulgar song full of topical allusions, which was received with screams of delight by the enormous audience.

“Here the hearers are very many, but those to whom they listen do not talk well.  Let us go,” said Oro, and we went.

At a recruiting station we paused a moment to consider posters supposed to be attractive, the very sight of which sent a thrill of shame through me.  I remember that the inscription under one of them was:  “What will your best girl say?”

“Is that how you gather your soldiers?  Later it will be otherwise,” said Oro, and passed on.

We reached Blackfriars and entered a hall at the doors of which stood women in poke-bonnets, very sweet-faced, earnest-looking women.  Their countenances seemed to strike Oro, and he motioned me to follow him into the hall.  It was quite full of a miserable-looking congregation of perhaps a thousand people.  A man in the blue and red uniform of the Salvation Army was preaching of duty to God and country, of self-denial, hope and forgiveness.  He seemed a humble person, but his words were earnest, and love flowed from him.  Some of his miserable congregation wept, others stared at him open-mouthed, a few, who were very weary, slept.  He called them up to receive pardon, and a number, led by the sweet-faced women, came and knelt before him.  He and others whispered to them, then seemed to bless them, and they rose with their faces changed.