THE ROMAN ROAD
thing had to be done over again, from the changed point of view. So I began afresh, at the crown of his soft hat, and worked down to his solid British shoes, this time investing everything with the new Roman halo; and at last I managed to get out: 'But you don't really live there, do you?' never doubting the fact, but wanting to hear it repeated.
'Well,' he said, good-naturedly overlooking the slight rudeness of my query, 'I live there as much as I live anywhere. About half the year sometimes. I've got a sort of a shanty there. You must come and see it some day.'
'But do you live anywhere else as well?' I went on, feeling the forbidden tide of questions surging up within me.
'O yes, all over the place,' was his vague reply. 'And I've got a diggings somewhere off Piccadilly.'
'Where's that?' I inquired.
'Where's what?' said he. 'O, Piccadilly! It's in London.'
'Have you a large garden?' I asked; 'and how many pigs have you got?'
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