And far out, drifting helplessly on that grey, angry sea, Isaw a small boat at the mercy of the winds and waves. And myguide said to me, 'Some call the sea "Falsehood," and thatboat "Truth," and others call the sea "Truth," and the boat"Falsehood;" and, for my part, I think that one is right as theother.'—The Professor of Ignorance.
Poets of all ages and of all denominations are unanimous in assuringus that there was once a period on this grey earth known as the GoldenAge. These irresponsible hards describe it in terms of the vaguest,most poetic splendour, and, apart from the fact, upon which they areall agreed, that the weather was always perfectly charming, we have toreconstruct its characteristics in the main for ourselves. Perhaps ifthe weather was uniformly delightful, even in this nineteenth century,the golden age might return again. We all know how perceptibly ourphysical, mental and spiritual level is raised by a few days of reallycharming weather; but until the weather determines to be always golden,we can hardly expect it of the age. Yet even now, even in England, andeven in London, we have every year a few days which must surely bewaifs and strays from the golden age, days which have fluttered downfrom under the hands of the recording angel, as he tied up his reports,and, after floating about for years in dim, interplanetary space,sometimes drop down upon us. They may last a week, they have been knownto last a fortnight; again, they may curtail themselves into a fewhours, but they are never wholly absent.
At the time at which this story opens, London was having its annualgolden days; days to be associated with cool, early rides in thecrumbly Row, with sitting on small, green chairs beneath the treesat the corner of the Park; with a general disinclination to exertoneself, or to stop smoking cigarettes; with a temper distinctly aboveits normal level, and a corresponding absence of moods. The crudenessof spring had disappeared, but not its freshness; the warmth of thesummer had come, but not its sultriness; the winter was definitelyover and past, and even in Hyde Park the voice of the singing bird washeard, and an old gentleman, who shall be nameless, had committed hisannual perjury by asserting in the Morning Post that he had heard anightingale in the elm-trees by the Ladies' Mile, which was manifestlyimpossible.
The sky was blue; the trees, strange to say, were green, for the leaveswere out, and even the powers of soot which hover round London had notyet had time to shed their blackening dew upon them. The season was infull swing, but nobody was tired of it yet, and "all London" evinceda tendency to modified rural habits, which expressed themselves inthe way of driving down to Hurlingham, and giving water parties atRichmond.
To state this more shortly, it was a balmy, breezy day towards themiddle of June. The shady walks that line the side of the Row were fullof the usual crowds of leisurely, well-dressed people who constitutewhat is known as London. Anyone acquainted with that august andsplendid body would have seen at once that something had happened; nota famine in China, nor a railway accident, nor a revolution, nor awar, but emphatically "something." Conversation was a thing that madetime pass, not a way of passing the time. Obviously the larger halfof London was asking questions, and the smaller half was enjoying itssuperiority, in being able to give answers. These