In spite of himself, Mr. Ramsay laughed. "I know them. What made you say I came from Clapham Junction?"
"Where do you live, then?"
"Balham."
"I was only two miles wrong, my friend; it's written on you."
"Written on me?"
"Yes, it will rub off in time, that brand of the respectable suburbs. Good old southern suburbs!"
"I don't see what you mean, but you know your London."
"Yes, Tenderfoot, but not your London. Mine was the jolly old London of dress rehearsals, actors' dressing-rooms, suppers at Salviati's, a brake for the Derby, Tattersall's, Lord's, Sunday at Richmond, Monday with the Vagabonds, at the House, in the Night Club, in the Row, in Mayfair, in Whitechapel, on the River, in the Bucket Shop, up the Spout, or the deuce knows where."
"I never saw that London," said the Tenderfoot gravely.
"What was your London, then?"