Put me in a London street this chill, damp night, and I should be lost in barren discomfort.  But in those old days, if I am not mistaken, I rather preferred the seasons of bad weather; I had, in fact, the true instinct of townsfolk, which finds pleasure in the triumph of artificial circumstance over natural conditions, delighting in a glare and tumult of busy life under hostile heavens which, elsewhere, would mean shivering ill-content.  The theatre, at such a time, is doubly warm and bright; every shop is a happy harbour of refuge—­there, behind the counter, stand persons quite at their ease, ready to chat as they serve you; the supper bars make tempting display under their many gas-jets; the public houses are full of people who all have money to spend.  Then clangs out the piano-organ—­and what could be cheerier!

I have much ado to believe that I really felt so.  But then, if life had not somehow made itself tolerable to me, how should I have lived through those many years?  Human creatures have a marvellous power of adapting themselves to necessity.  Were I, even now, thrown back into squalid London, with no choice but to abide and work there—­should I not abide and work?  Notwithstanding thoughts of the chemist’s shop, I suppose I should.

VI.

One of the shining moments of my day is that when, having returned a little weary from an afternoon walk, I exchange boots for slippers, out-of-doors coat for easy, familiar, shabby jacket, and, in my deep, soft-elbowed chair, await the tea-tray.  Perhaps it is while drinking tea that I most of all enjoy the sense of leisure.  In days gone by, I could but gulp down the refreshment, hurried, often harassed, by the thought of the work I had before me; often I was quite insensible of the aroma, the flavour, of what I drank.  Now, how delicious is the soft yet penetrating odour which floats into my study, with the appearance of the teapot!  What solace in the first cup, what deliberate sipping of that which follows!  What a glow does it bring after a walk in chilly rain!  The while, I look around at my books and pictures, tasting the happiness of their tranquil possession.  I cast an eye towards my pipe; perhaps I prepare it, with seeming thoughtfulness, for the reception of tobacco.  And never, surely, is tobacco more soothing, more suggestive of humane thoughts, than when it comes just after tea—­itself a bland inspirer.

In nothing is the English genius for domesticity more notably declared than in the institution of this festival—­almost one may call it so—­of afternoon tea.  Beneath simple roofs, the hour of tea has something in it of sacred; for it marks the end of domestic work and worry, the beginning of restful, sociable evening.  The mere chink of cups and saucers tunes the mind to happy repose.  I care nothing for your five o’clock tea of modish drawing-rooms, idle and wearisome like all else in which that world