Page:Punch Vol 148.djvu/266

When I met Gladwyn―an elderly and pessimistic bachelor―at the club the other night I was agreeably surprised to find him looking so cheerful. Since the War began I have sedulously avoided him, but, encouraged by his comparatively radiant appearance, returned his nod and asked him if he had been out of town. "No," he replied, "I've been flat-hunting for the last three weeks―got to turn out of my present quarters―nuisance, of course; but, good Lord! what right has a non-combatant to talk of nuisances?" This astonishing sentiment, coming from the most self-centred man I know, prompted me to make some sympathetic remark; and Gladwyn, who loves talking about himself, at once started off on a long recital of his experiences. Gladwyn, I should explain, is a hopeless conversationalist, but excels in monologue.

"I've been to about twenty house-agents," he went on, "and nothing could exceed their attention. The urbanity, graciousness and splendid appearance of their young men fills me with admiration. Stout fellows, I believe, from what I know of one or two of them, who drill hard in their leisure hours and all that sort of thing, but in the office miracles of gentleness and persuasion. Beautifully dressed, too, in a style of quiet elegance which makes me painfully conscious of my own shortcomings. But they never presume upon it, and I marvel at their condescension in writing out endless orders to view small flats, 'upper parts' and 'maisonettes' suited to my humble requirements. It seems to me that half London is being converted into 'maisonettes,' at least the unfashionable half. Mine always begin on the third floor and generally consist of bedrooms turned into sitting-rooms, and box-rooms into kitchens. Lots of rooms, endless stairs and no lifts. 'Maisonettes' are generally near railway stations, about a stone's-throw off, and they look out at the back on the Underground or garages or the yards of breweries. To appreciate them fully you want to be strong in the heart and legs and hard of hearing―in short, to combine the activity of the goat with the deafness of the adder. 'Upper parts' are always over shops on main arteries of traffic.

With regard to flats my experience has been that more often than not there was nobody in when I called, or it was inconvenient for the tenant to let me see it at that moment, or the flat was already let through another agent. Still, when I have been admitted, the behaviour of the tenants has filled me with admiration. They never give away the agents. They never want to leave. They always give the flat a good character for quietness and commodiousness. In one that was slap over the Underground the lady admitted that sometimes a 'slight humming' was audible―that was all. There are those who volunteer the reasons of their moving, but for the most part they are reticent, and that I can understand, since in a good many cases it is the same as my own―a rise in the rent on renewal.

"I have seen some charming flats, with plenty of room, bright and airy, and at a moderate rent, but they were never lower than the fourth floor and there was no lift. Why does no man of science invent wings for ascending stairs?

"I admire the house agents, and the tenants―when they are at home―but my feelings towards estate agents who have offices on the same premises as the flats they want to let are mixed. They are extraordinarily affable, but they are inclined to overdo it. The flat that they want to let is always 'our show flat'―the brightest and airiest and most attractive in the whole block. They wax lyrical over the view if the flat is on the fifth floor, or the beauties of its geyser if it is in the basement. After all, they are professional eulogists, and praise is the hardest thing to swallow when it isn't about yourself. The porters are fine fellows, and when you see them in their uniforms they are worthy of a Blue Hungarian Band. One I saw the other day in Bloomsbury had a moustache that reminded me of old Victor Emmanuel. But the people I admire most of all are the photographers who are responsible for the views of the immediate surroundings of Cortina Mansions or whatever it may be. I've got an illustrated booklet with pictures of a stately pile embosomed in verdure, with spreading lawns and apparently no other building for hundreds of miles. The stately pile is all right, but the verdure is all my eye. And yet people talk of the truthful camera."

Here Gladwyn paused for breath, and I asked, "Have you found anything to suit you?"

"No," he answered, "nothing yet, but I'm going to look at a fascinating 'maisonette' in Brondesbury to-morrow."

"Well, good luck," I said, getting up to go; "you seen to have had a pretty rotten time."

"Not a bit of it," replied Gladwyn with unaffected cheerfulness. "I haven't had time to think of the War for three weeks."

The fusion of Cross and Crescent.

"At last she said, hesitatingly: 'I'm not quite sure; but I think I could manage on 400 francs.' He went a trifle pale, having reserved exactly that sum for the purchase of a sporting rifle for shooting swallows in summer."―Globe.