(By Charing Cross.)
"My hair?" she said. "It touches the ground."
As she spoke, she seized her fringe by the roots and flung it on the floor.
"A marvellous feat for a European," I murmured with some difficulty. "Will you have another drink?"
"Yes," said Tooraloora; "I make it a rule always to get intoxicated in a public-house."
I did not offer her a chair, I flung one at her head. That impulse towards some physical demonstration, that craving for physical contact which attacks us go suddenly with its terrific impulse, and chokes and stifles us, ourselves, beneath it, blinding us to all except itself, rushed upon Tooraloora then: and she landed me one in the eye. Now, this was the moment I had been expecting and dreading, practically, ever since her hand had left my ear the night before—this moment when it should strike me again. I do not mean consciously, but there are a million slight, vague, physical experiences and sensations within us of which the mind remains almost unconscious; and I have no pretensions to physical courage. For a second I felt the colour rise to my face. Every expletive that should have been forgotten, I remembered. My pulses seemed beating as they do in fever, my ears seemed full of sounds, and I felt the cold touch of the policeman's grasp like ice upon my shoulder as a voice murmured, "This means forty shillings or a month."... When we reached the station I flung myself upon the floor, leaning my head upon my hand, the white powder upon my coat still lingered. I seemed to hear Tooraloora murmur, "'E don't know where 'E are!"
AT THE OLD MASTERS.
The following selections may assist the Art-student visiting Burlington House:—