I gave a yell and ran full tilt to the nearest subway entrance.  I burst into the mass of struggling, unphilosophic humanity and fought, shoved, cursed, and buffeted with them.  I pushed three old ladies to one side to snatch my ticket before they could get theirs.  I leaped into the car at the head of a flying wedge of sinful, unmystical men, who knew nothing of infinite beauty and peace.  As the door closed I pushed a decrepit clergyman outside, and I hope he fell on the third rail.  As I felt the lurching, trampling, throttling jam of humanity sway to and fro with the motion of the car, I drew a long breath.  Dare I confess it?—­I was perfectly happy!

AN OXFORD LANDLADY

It was a crisp October afternoon, and along Iffley Road the wind was chivvying the yellow leaves.  We stood at the window watching the flappers opposite play hockey.  One of them had a scarlet tam-o’-shanter and glorious dark hair underneath it....  A quiet tap at the door, gentle but definite, and in came Mrs. Beesley.

If you have been at our digs, you know her by sight, and have not forgotten.  Hewn of the real imperial marble is she, not unlike Queen Victoria in shape and stature.  She tells us she used to dance featly and with abandon in days gone by, when her girlish slimness was the admiration of every greengrocer’s assistant in Oxford—­and even in later days when she and Dr. Warren always opened the Magdalen servants’ ball together.  She and the courtly President were always the star couple.  I can see her doing the Sir Roger de Coverley.  But the virgin zone was loosed long ago, and she has expanded with the British Empire.  Not rotund, but rather imposingly cubic.  Our hallway is a very narrow one, and when you come to visit us of an evening, after red-cheeked Emily has gone off to better tilting grounds, it is a prime delight to see Mrs. Beesley backing down the passage (like a stately canal boat) before the advancing guest.  Very large of head and very pink of cheek, very fond of a brisk conversation, some skill at cooking, slow and full of dignity on the stairs, much reminiscent of former lodgers, bold as a lion when she thinks she is imposed upon, but otherwhiles humorous and placable—­such is our Mrs. Beesley.

She saw us standing by the window, and thought we were watching the leaves twisting up the roadway in golden spirals.

“Watching the wind?” she said pleasantly.  “I loves to see the leaves ‘avin’ a frolic.  They enjoys it, same as young gentlemen do.”

“Or young ladies?” I suggested.  “We were watching the flappers play hockey, Mrs. Beesley.  One of them is a most fascinating creature.  I think her name must be Kathleen....”

Mrs. Beesley chuckled merrily and threw up her head in that delightful way of hers.  “Oh, dear, Oh, dear, you’re just like all the other gentlemen,” she said.  “Always awatchin’ and awaitin’ for the young ladies.  Mr. Bye that used to be ‘ere was just the same, an’ he was engaged to be marrit.  ’Ad some of ’em in to tea once, he did.  I thought it was scandalous, and ’im almost a marrit gentleman.”