In the course of a few weeks Dyson became accustomed, to the constant
incursions of the ingenious Mr. Burton, who showed himself ready to drop
in at all hours, not averse to refreshment, and a profound guide in the
complicated questions of life. His visits at once terrified and
delighted Dyson, who could no longer seat himself at his bureau secure
from interruption while he embarked on literary undertakings, each one
of which was to be a masterpiece. On the other hand, it was a vivid
pleasure to be confronted with views so highly original; and if here and
there Mr. Burton's reasonings seemed tinged with fallacy, yet Dyson
freely yielded to the joy of strangeness, and never failed to give his
visitor a frank and hearty welcome. Mr. Burton's first inquiry was
always after the unprincipled Robbins, and he seemed to feel the stings
of disappointment when Dyson told him that he had failed to meet this
outrage on all morality, as Burton styled him, vowing that sooner or
later he would take vengeance on such a shameless betrayal of trust. One evening they had sat together for some time discussing the
possibility of laying down for this present generation and our modern
and intensely complicated order of society, some rules of social
diplomacy, such as Lord Bacon gave to the courtiers of King James I. "It
is a book to make," said Mr. Burton, "but who is there capable of making
it? I tell you people are longing for such a book; it would bring
fortune to its publisher. Bacon's Essays are exquisite, but they have
now no practical application; the modern strategist can find but little
use in a treatise 'De Re Militari,' written by a Florentine in the
fifteenth century. Scarcely more dissimilar are the social conditions of
Bacon's time and our own; the rules that he lays down so exquisitely for
the courtier and diplomatist of James the First's age will avail us
little in the rough-and-tumble struggle of to-day. Life, I am afraid,
has deteriorated; it gives little play for fine strokes such as formerly
advanced men in the state. Except in such businesses as mine, where a
chance does occur now and then, it has all become, as I said, an affair
of rough and tumble; men still desire to attain, it is true, but what is
their _moyen de parvenir_? A mere imitation, and not a gracious one, of
the arts of the soap-vender and the proprietor of baking powder. When I
think of these things, my dear Dyson, I confess that I am tempted to
despair of my century." "You are too pessimistic, my dear fellow; you set up too high a
standard. Certainly, I agree with you that the times are decadent in
many ways. I admit a general appearance of squalor; it needs much
philosophy to extract the wonderful and the beautiful from the Cromwell
Road or the Nonconformist conscience. Australian wines of fine Burgundy
character, the novels alike of the old women and the new women, popular
journalism,--these things indeed make for depression. Yet we have our
advantages. Before us is unfolded the greatest spectacle the world has
ever seen,--the mystery of the innumerable unending streets, the strange
adventures that must infallibly arise from so complicated a press of
interests. Nay, I will say that he who has stood in the ways of a suburb
and has seen them stretch before him all shining, void, and desolate at
noonday, has not lived in vain. Such a sight is in reality more
wonderful than any perspective of Bagdad or Grand Cairo. And, to set on
one side the entertaining history of the gem which you told me, surely
you must have had many singular adventures in your own career?" "Perhaps not so many as you would think; a good deal--the larger
part--of my business has been as commonplace as linen-drapery. But of
course things happen now and then. It is ten years since I have
established my agency, and I suppose that a house and estate agent who
had been in trade for an equal time could tell you some queer stories. But I must give you a sample of my experiences some night. "Why not to-night?" said Dyson. "This evening seems to me admirably
adapted for an odd chapter. Look out into the street; you can catch a
view of it, if you crane your neck from that chair of yours. Is it not
charming? The double row of lamps growing closer in the distance, the
hazy outline of the plane-tree in the square, and the lights of the
hansoms swimming to and fro, gliding and vanishing; and above, the sky
all clear and blue and shining. Come, let us have one of your _cent
nouvelles nouvelles_." "My dear Dyson, I am delighted to amuse you." With these words Mr.
Burton prefaced the




NOVEL OF THE IRON MAID. I think the most extraordinary event which I can recall took place about
five years ago. I was then still feeling my way; I had declared for
business, and attended regularly at my office, but I had not succeeded
in establishing a really profitable connection, and consequently I had a
good deal of leisure time on my hands. I have never thought fit to
trouble you with the details of my private life; they would be entirely
devoid of interest. I must briefly say, however, that I had a numerous
circle of acquaintance, and was never at a loss as to how to spend my
evenings. I was so fortunate as to have friends in most of the ranks of
the social order; there is nothing so unfortunate, to my mind, as a
specialized circle, wherein a certain round of ideas is continually
traversed and retraversed. I have always tried to find out new types and
persons whose brains contained something fresh to me; one may chance to
gain information even from the conversation of city men on an omnibus. Amongst my acquaintance I knew a young doctor who lived in a far
outlying suburb, and I used often to brave the intolerably slow railway
journey, to have the pleasure of listening to his talk. One night we
conversed so eagerly together over our pipes and whiskey that the clock
passed unnoticed, and when I glanced up I realized with a shock that I
had just five minutes in which to catch the last tram. I made a dash for
my hat and stick, and jumped out of the house and down the steps, and
tore at full speed up the street. It was no good, however; there was a
shriek of the engine whistle, and I stood there at the station door and
saw far on the long dark line of the embankment a red light shine and
vanish, and a porter came down and shut the door with a bang. "How far to London?" I asked him. "A good nine miles to Waterloo Bridge;" and with that he went off. Before me was the long suburban street, its dreary distance marked by
rows of twinkling lamps, and the air was poisoned by the faint sickly
smell of burning bricks; it was not a cheerful prospect by any means,
and I had to walk through nine miles of such streets, deserted as those
of Pompeii.