II
They arrived in London about half-past six the same evening, and Wynne could not help smiling as he noticed how all the good people were hurrying homeward from their work as though their lives depended upon expedition. As he came from the station he observed how they fought for places on the omnibuses, and jostled down the steps to the tube stations.
In Paris one is never conscious of that soundless siren which bids mankind close the ledger and lock the office door. The Parisian does not appear to be in any immediate hurry when work is over. He stays awhile to converse with a friend, or takes his petit verre under the shade of a café awning.
Wynne reflected that the English must be a very virtuous race to exert so much energy to arrive home. He recognized that the old goddess of punctuality was still at work, and that the popular craving to be at a certain place at a certain time, which had galled him so much as a boy, was no false imagination.
“They are still in a hurry—still tugged along by their watch-springs,” he thought.
As he watched the tide of hastening humanity he became suddenly aware that he was glad that it should be so—glad for a personal reason.
Routine which formed so national a characteristic argued a nation whose opinions, once formed, would endure.
To be accepted by such a people would mean to inherit an imperishable greatness.
“Presently,” he thought, “these people will accept me as essential to their lives. I shall be as necessary to them as the 8.40 from Sydenham. They will no more miss me than they would miss their breakfasts.”
At this point the little impresario once more broke in upon his reflections.