"
To enjoy the humour of an incident one must be at some distance from
it either in time or relationship. I remember watching an amusing
scene in Whitefield Street, just off Tottenham Court Road, one
winter's Saturday night. A woman--a rather respectable looking
woman, had her hat only been on straight--had just been shot out of
a public-house. She was very dignified, and very drunk. A
policeman requested her to move on. She called him "Fellow," and
demanded to know of him if he considered that was the proper tone in
which to address a lady. She threatened to report him to her
cousin, the Lord Chancellor.
"Yes; this way to the Lord Chancellor," retorted the policeman.
"You come along with me; " and he caught hold of her by the arm.
She gave a lurch, and nearly fell. To save her the man put his arm
round her waist. She clasped him round the neck, and together they
spun round two or three times; while at the very moment a piano-
organ at the opposite corner struck up a waltz.
"Choose your partners, gentlemen, for the next dance," shouted a
wag, and the crowd roared.
I was laughing myself, for the situation was undeniably comical, the
constable's expression of disgust being quite Hogarthian, when the
sight of a child's face beneath the gas-lamp stayed me.
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