"Ah, Mr. Briarfield, you ask a big question. Where shall I begin?"
"Well, which interested you most, the east or the west?"
"The east."
"Why?"
"Because the people are so much happier."
"You are joking."
"I speak only as an observer, of course, but I speak as I saw. I went to the places of amusement, I watched the people's faces. In the west I paid half a guinea for a seat; I sat amidst gaudy surroundings. Around me were over-fed men and under-dressed women. During the entertainments they sat coldly critical, mildly amused. It was with difficulty they suppressed their yawns; the applause was faint. In the east I paid sixpence for my seat. The people were the toilers of the city; but ah! they enjoyed. Signore, they enjoyed. They laughed, they shouted, they applauded. It did me good to hear them. I dined in your fashionable West-end hotels, where rare wines were provided, and where rich men pay thousands a year to a chef gifted in the art of titillating people's palates. The diners grumbled with their food, their wines. I also dined in Whitechapel. I spent eightpence for my dinner. Ah, you should have seen the people eat there! Even those who were poorest, and who had only their—what do you call them?—their bloaters, their tripe and onions, their black puddings—ah, but they enjoyed those things far more than your fashionable diners at the Savoy! Oh yes, I went everywhere. I went to the churches, the chapels. Again the same difference struck me. In the east, there was a sense of reality; but in the west—ah, Great Allah! forgive me!"
"Then you would rather live in the east?"
"Yes and no, Signor Briarfield. Yes, because, in spite of poverty and wretchedness, I saw more of what we call happiness in the East End; no, because, although the people seemed happy, to me it was hell. The sights, the smells, the sounds! Still, if I were given to pity, I should pity your people who live in Mayfair, rather than those at Stepney."
"You went to the House of Commons?"