“Get urt, you’m too young to see our Mah-rie.”  Roars of laughter, that almost shut out the wind with their heartiness!

The Subaltern could tell very accurately how their thoughts were flying homewards, and he could see the very same pictures in front of their eyes, because he lived near to where most of them lived, and knew the sights that most of them knew.  Their homes on Saturday night!  The warm red tiles of their kitchen floors; the “scrap” mats (laboriously hand sewn) in front of the bright fires in their “grates.”  The walls of their “parlours,” bedecked with gorgeous lithographs, calendars and framed texts!

All the things they loved so much to do on Saturday nights.  The humming market street, entirely blocked with its double rows of booths.  How pleasant it must have seemed to them!  At the top of the street the church stared impassively into space; at the bottom, the trams clanged and grinded as they rounded the corner and swung triumphantly into the square.  The stalls, brightly lit by flaring gas-jets, laden with meat, fish, fruit, sweets, music, flowers, all that the Soul could long for throughout a restful Sunday day.  Their womenfolk, with their heads covered in the ubiquitous shawl of many colours, buzzing busily from booth to booth, with a purse clutched in one hand, and an open “string” bag, filled with bulky newspaper-covered parcels, in the other.  The men looking on with hands in pockets, English-wise, indefinably self-conscious in the face of the delicate business of shopping.  Then perhaps an hour or two’s excitement in a shag-scented picture palace, or a crowded music hall with some big star at the top of the bill, a small one at the bottom, and the between turns lamentable.  And, of course, a visit to some busy “saloon bar” redolent of “beer and ’baccy.”  Then home on the electric tram.

The thought of it all did not, as might be expected, make them sad.  In fact, the home memories seemed to warm their hearts, and the humour of this “Saturday night,” which might have left more delicately cultured natures untouched, appealed to them irresistibly.

That night the Subaltern, too, had his dreams.  They did not fly homewards:  he would have hated to have been surrounded and overwhelmed by his family:  he shrank at the thought of congratulations:  he shuddered at the idea of explanations.  To-night he would have wished to be quite alone.  And in London!

First of all would come a hot bath at the hotel—­a tremendous scrubbing, and a “rub down,” with a big towel—­haircuttings, and shaving, and nail cleanings!  Then he would get into mufti.  He chose, after a careful review, a lounge suit of a grey-blue colour that had been fashionable that summer.  It was light, and he had always liked the feel of it on his shoulders.  He chose the shirt, collar and tie to go with it.  He imagined himself completely dressed, and he looked with pleasure down at the straight creases in his trousers, at his neat patent leather boots with their suede tops.  It pleased him tremendously to imagine himself once more properly “clothed and in his right mind.”