The meal was prolonged beyond an hour

and still my uncle did not come. Mrs. Mercer stood up to go: she

was sorry she couldn't wait any longer, but it was after eight

o'clock and she did not like to be out late as the night air was bad

for her. When she had gone I began to walk up and down the

room, clenching my fists. My aunt said:


"I'm afraid you may put off your bazaar for this night of Our Lord."


At nine o'clock I heard my uncle's latchkey in the halldoor. I heard

him talking to himself and heard the hallstand rocking when it had

received the weight of his overcoat. I could interpret these signs.

When he was midway through his dinner I asked him to give me

the money to go to the bazaar. He had forgotten.


"The people are in bed and after their first sleep now," he said.


I did not smile. My aunt said to him energetically:


"Can't you give him the money and let him go? You've kept him

late enough as it is."


My uncle said he was very sorry he had forgotten. He said he

believed in the old saying: "All work and no play makes Jack a

dull boy." He asked me where I was going and, when I had told

him a second time he asked me did I know The Arab's Farewell to

his Steed. When I left the kitchen he was about to recite the

opening lines of the piece to my aunt.


I held a florin tightly in my hand as I strode down Buckingham

Street towards the station. The sight of the streets thronged with

buyers and glaring with gas recalled to me the purpose of my

journey. I took my seat in a third-class carriage of a deserted train.

After an intolerable delay the train moved out of the station

slowly. It crept onward among ruinous house and over the

twinkling river. At Westland Row Station a crowd of people

pressed to the carriage doors; but the porters moved them back,

saying that it was a special train for the bazaar. I remained alone in

the bare carriage. In a few minutes the train drew up beside an

improvised wooden platform. I passed out on to the road and saw

by the lighted dial of a clock that it was ten minutes to ten. In front

of me was a large building which displayed the magical name.


I could not find any sixpenny entrance and, fearing that the bazaar

would be closed, I passed in quickly through a turnstile, handing a

shilling to a weary-looking man. I found myself in a big hall

girdled at half its height by a gallery. Nearly all the stalls were

closed and the greater part of the hall was in darkness. I recognised

a silence like that which pervades a church after a service. I

walked into the centre of the bazaar timidly. A few people were

gathered about the stalls which were still open. Before a curtain,

over which the words Cafe Chantant were written in coloured

lamps, two men were counting money on a salver. I listened to the

fall of the coins.


Remembering with difficulty why I had come I went over to one of

the stalls and examined porcelain vases and flowered tea- sets. At

the door of the stall a young lady was talking and laughing with

two young gentlemen. I remarked their English accents and

listened vaguely to their conversation.


"O, I never said such a thing!"


"O, but you did!"


"O, but I didn't!"


"Didn't she say that?"


"Yes. I heard her."


"0, there's a ... fib!"


Observing me the young lady came over and asked me did I wish

to buy anything.