Your
shadow in London was rather a dim and wavery gentleman who caught
up with you as you turned out of the shaded by-street; who went
with you a distance and then shyly vanished, but was good company
while he stayed, being restful, as your well-bred Englishman nearly
always is, and not overly aggressive.
There was no fog that first morning, or the next morning, or any
morning of the twenty-odd we spent in England. Often the weather
was cloudy, and occasionally it was rainy; and then London would
be drenched in that wonderful gray color which makes it, scenically
speaking, one of the most fascinating spots on earth; but it was
never downright foggy and never downright cold. English friends
used to speak to me about it. They apologized for good weather
at that season of the year, just as natives of a Florida winter
resort will apologize for bad.
"You know, old dear," they would say, "this is most unusual - most
stroidinary, in fact. It ought to be raw and nasty and foggy at
this time of the year, and here the cursed weather is perfectly
fine - blast it!" You could tell they were grieved about it, and
disappointed too. Anything that is not regular upsets Englishmen
frightfully.
