pillared arcade that protects the entrance of the Ritz Restaurant from the gross changes of London’s climate; and it was as he strode under this arcade, his steps ringing sharply on the dry white stones, that it was distinctly brought to his notice that he was being followed.
He did not, however, turn his head or show any other sign of interest, merely dismissing his pursuer as an optimist. Mr. Maturin’s, in point of fact, was a nature peculiarly lacking in any interest as to what might or might not at any moment be happening behind him; and one of his favourite mots had ever been, whether in discussion, distress or danger, “Well, my friends, let’s face it!” There were, of course, not wanting those who ventured to doubt whether Beau Maturin had so readily faced “things” had he not had such a prepossessing face with which to conciliate them. “Ah,” Mr. Maturin would say to such, “you’re envious, let’s face it.”
On this occasion, so absorbed was he in absence of thought, he allowed himself to reach the corner of Arlington Street before swinging round to “face it.”
“Well?” said Mr. Maturin.
“’Ere!” said the other sans courtesy. “You do walk a pace, you do!”
“I am sorry,” said Mr. Maturin. “What do you want?”
“Want!” said the other. “I like that! What do I want! Jerusalem!”
“If you want Jerusalem,” said Mr. Maturin severely, “you should apply to the Zionist Society. They would be company for you. It must be very depressing for a man of your size to go about wanting Jerusalem all by yourself.”
That the pursuer had no evil intentions, at least to one of Mr. Maturin’s stature, had instantly been obvious. He was a small seedy-looking man in a bowler-hat of some past civilisation: his clothes sadly reflected the inclemencies of the weather, but had the air of not being very valuable, while the coloring of his face was that of one who had not in recent times suffered the delightful but perilous purification of water; and, as he stood panting beneath our gentleman, his expression was one of such bitter disgust that Mr. Maturin, being able to account for it only by the continued action of acid foods on the liver, thought it but right to advise him not to take so much vinegar with his tinned salmon.