My cab had gone up Bond Street, where the fortune-tellers
flourish, and their flags wave in the wind, and their painted white hands
point alluringly up mysterious staircases. These fortune-tellers make a
tolerable deal of money, and the money they make must come out chiefly of
the pockets of well-dressed library subscribers. Not a doubt but that many
of Mr. Wells's audience were clients of the soothsayers. A strange
multitude! It appeared to consist of a thousand women and Mr. Bernard
Shaw. Women deemed to be elegant, women certainly deeming themselves to be
elegant! I, being far from the rostrum, had a good view of the backs of
their blouses, chemisettes, and bodices. What an assortment of pretentious
and ill-made toilettes! What disclosures of clumsy hooks-and-eyes and
general creased carelessness! It would not do for me to behold the
"library" public in the mass too often!
* * * * *
I could not but think of the State performance of "Money" at Drury Lane on
the previous night: that amusing smack at living artists. There has been
a good deal of straight talk about it in the daily and weekly papers. But
the psychology of the matter has not been satisfactorily explained. Blame
has been laid at the King's door.
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