The other day I came across my vague friend again. Last time it was in an A.B.C. shop; this time it was in a bus. We always meet in humble places. He was vaguer than ever, fuddled and distrait; but delightfully engaging. He had evidently not yet lunched, for he wore no crumb; but I had a shrewd suspicion that beneath his green Alpine hat there lurked a straw or two in his untidy hair. It would hardly have surprised me to see him turn with his childlike smile and say, “Would you mind very much taking them out for me? You know they do tickle so!”⁠—half mumbled, half shouted. Instead, he tried to shake hands, and his black eyebrows danced. He looked as loosely put together as a careless parcel. I imagined large bits of him tumbling out. “You’re off somewhere or other, I suppose?” he said; and the question was so characteristic it was impossible not to laugh. I mentioned the City. “I’m going that way too,” he said cheerfully. He had come to the conclusion that he could not shake hands with safety; there were too many odds and ends about him⁠—gloves, newspapers, half-open umbrella, parcels. Evidently he had left the house uncertain as to where he was going, and had brought all these things in case, like the White Knight, he might find a use for them on the way. His overcoat was wrongly buttoned, too, so that on one side the collar reached almost to his ear. From the pockets protruded large envelopes, white and blue. I marvelled again how he ever concentrated his mind enough to write plays and novels; for in both the action was quick and dramatic; the dialogue crisp, forcible, often witty. “Going to the City!” I exclaimed. “You?” Museums, libraries, secondhand bookshops were his usual haunts⁠—places where he could be vague and absentminded without danger to anyone. I felt genuinely curious. “Copy of some kind? Local colour for something, eh?” I laughed, hoping to draw him out. A considerable pause followed, during which he rearranged several of his parcels, and his eyebrows shot up and down like two black-beetles dancing a hornpipe. “I’m helping a chap with his lease,” he replied suddenly, in such a very loud voice that everybody in the bus heard and became interested. He had this way of alternately mumbling and talking very loud⁠—absurdly loud; picking out unimportant words with terrific emphasis. He also had this way of helping others. Indeed, it was difficult to meet him without suspecting an errand of kindness⁠—rarely mentioned, however. “Chap with his lease,” he repeated in a kind of roar, as though he feared someone had not heard him⁠—the driver, possibly! We were in a white Putney bus, going East. The policeman just then held it up at Wellington Street. “It’s jolly stopping like this,” he cried; “one can chat a bit without having to shout.” My curiosity about the lease, or rather about his part in it, prevented an immediate reply. How he could possibly help in such a complicated matter puzzled me exceedingly. “Horrible things, leases!” I said at length. “Confusing, I mean, with their endless repetitions and absence of commas. Legal language seems so needlessly⁠—” “Oh, but this one is right enough,” he interrupted. “You see, my pal hasn’t signed it yet. He’s in rather a muddle about it, to tell the truth, and I’m going to get it straightened out by my solicitor.” The bus started on with a lurch, and he rolled against me. “It’s a three-year lease,” he roared, “with an option to renew, you know⁠—oh no, I’m wrong there, by the by,” and he tapped my knee and dropped a glove, and, when it was picked up and handed to him, tried to stuff it up his sleeve as though it was a handkerchief⁠—“I’m wrong there⁠—that’s the house he’s in at present, and his wife wants to break that lease because she doesn’t like it, and they’ve got more children than they expected (these words whispered), and there’s no bathroom, and the kitchen stairs are absurdly narrow⁠—” “But the lease⁠—you were just saying?” “Quite so; I was,” and both eyebrows dropped so that the eyes were almost completely hidden, “but that lease is all right. It’s the other one I was talking about just then⁠—” “The house he’s in now, you mean, or⁠—?” My head already swam. The attention of the people opposite had begun to wander. My friend pulled himself together and clutched several parcels. “No, no, no,” he explained, smiling gently; “he likes this one. It’s the other I meant⁠—the one his wife doesn’t approve of⁠—the one with the narrow bathroom stairs and no kitchen⁠—I mean the narrow kitchen stairs and no bathroom. It has so few cupboards, too, and the nursery chimneys smoke every time the wind’s in the east.