As one looked
on her profile, which was what you might call firm, and saw the
mild-looking little king, who seemed quite eclipsed by her presence,
one understood - or anyway one thought one understood - why an English
assemblage, when standing to chant the national anthem these times,
always puts such fervor and meaning into the first line of it.
Only one untoward incident occurred: The inevitable militant lady
broke through the lines as the imperial carriage passed and threw
a Votes for Women handbill into His Majesty's lap. She was removed
thence by the police with the skill and dexterity of long practice.
The police were competently on the job. They always are - which
brings me round to the subject of the London bobby and leads me
to venture the assertion that individually and collectively,
personally and officially, he is a splendid piece of work. The
finest thing in London is the London policeman and the worst thing
is the shamefully small and shabby pay he gets. He is majestic
because he represents the majesty of the English law; he is humble
and obliging because, as a servant, he serves the people who make
the law. And always he knows his business.
In Charing Cross, where all roads meet and snarl up in the bewildering
semblance of many fishing worms in a can, I ventured out into the
roadway to ask a policeman the best route for reaching a place in
a somewhat obscure quarter.
