_The_ BLOWER _of_ BUBBLES
I
Snow was falling in Sloane Square, quarreling with rain as it fell.
Lamps were gleaming sulkily in Sloane Square, as though they resented
being made to work on such a night, and had more than a notion to down
tools and go out of business altogether. Motor-cars were passing
through Sloane Square, with glaring lights, sliding and skidding like
inebriated dragons; and the clattering hoofs of horses drawing vagabond
cabs sounded annoyingly loud in the damp-charged air of Sloane Square.
It was Christmas Eve in Sloane Square, and the match-woman, the vender
of newspapers, and the impossible road-sweeper were all exacting the
largesse of passers-by, who felt that the six-penny generosity of a
single night atoned for a year's indifference to their lot. People were
wishing each other a merry Christmas in Sloane Square, as they
struggled along under ungainly parcels. The muffin-man was doing an
enormous trade.
And I looked from my window and prayed for Aladdin's Lamp or the Magic
Carpet, that I might place a thousand miles between myself and Sloane
Square.
There was a knock at the door.
"Enter the Slave of the Lamp," said I, and the door opened to admit--my
landlady, Mrs. Mulvaney.
"Will you be dining in?" she said. Her Irish accent hardly helped the
illusion of the all-potent slave.
"And why not?" I asked.
"Ach, nothing, sor. I only thought----"
"An unwomanly thing to do, Mrs. Mulvaney."
"You're afther being a strange one, dining alone on Christmas Eve."
"Then join me, Mrs. Mulvaney."
I swear she blushed, and I felt more than a little envious of the
nature which could convert such a vinegary attempt at condescension
into a gallantry.
"F'what would I be doing, taking dinner wid a child like you?"
I was twenty-five, but Mrs. Mulvaney looked on all men as equally
immature.
"And have you not got no friends?" she went on, but I stopped her with
a gesture.
"Thank Heaven--no!" I said. "I am one of intellectuality's hermits. An
educated man in London is like the bell-cow of the herd--a thing
apart."
"You're a great fool, I'm afther thinking."
"The foolish always damn the wise," I answered, with an attempt at
epigrammatic misquotation.
Mrs. Mulvaney heaved a sigh. Its very forcefulness recalled the
nautical meaning of the verb.
"You'd be a sight happier outside," she said. "Holy Mary knows I
wouldn't be driving you into the streets, but I'm worried you'd get
cross wid yourself at home."
To get rid of her, I put on my coat and went out. Perhaps she was
right; things would have been intolerable at home. Home! Such a
travesty of the word! The sickly lamplight of Sloane Square was
preferable.
"Merry Christmas, guv'nor!" said the road-sweeper.
"Merry fiddlesticks!" I growled, and gave him sixpence. I tried to
avoid the vender of newspapers, but he spotted my fur collar with the
instinct of a mendicant, handing me a paper and his blessing.
"'Appy Christmas, milord!" said he.