Ah, yes," he said, "I never act on

Ah, yes," he said, "I never act on the stage nowadays."
He laid some emphasis on the word "stage," and I asked him where, then, he did act.
"On the platform," he answered.
"You mean," said I, "that you recite at concerts?"
He smiled.
"This," he whispered, striking his stick on the ground, "is the platform I mean."
"I suppose," he said presently, giving me a light for the cigar which he had offered me, "you have been seeing a friend off?"
He asked me what I supposed he had been doing. I said that I had watched him doing the same thing.
"No," he said gravely. "That lady was not a friend of mine. I met her for the first time this morning, less than half an hour ago, here," and again he struck the platform with his stick.
I confessed that I was bewildered. He smiled.
"You may," he said, "have heard of the Anglo-American Social Bureau."
I had not. He explained to me that of the thousands of Americans who pass through England there are many hun¬dreds who have no English friends. In the old days they used to bring letters of introduction. But the English are so inhospitable that these letters are hardly worth the paper they are written on.
"Americans are a sociable people, and most of them have plenty of money to spend. The AA.S.B. supplies them with English friends. Fifty per cent of the fees is paid over to the friend. The other fifty is retained by the AA.S.B. I am not, alas, a director. If I were, I should be a very rich man indeed. I am only an employee. But even so I do very well. I am one of the seers-off."
I asked for enlightenment.
"Many Americans," he said, "cannot afford to keep friends in England. But they can all afford to be seen off. The fee is only five pounds (twenty-five dollars) for a single traveller; and eight pounds (forty dollars) for a party of two or more. They send that in to the Bureau, giving the date of their departure, and a description by which the seer-off can identify them on the platform. And then — well, then they are seen off."
"But is it worth it?" I exclaimed,
"Of course it is worth it," said Le Ros. "It prevents them from feeling out of it. It earns them the respect of the guard. It saves them from being despised bу their fellow-passengers — the people who are going to be on the boat. Besides, it is a great pleasure in itself. You saw me seeing that young lady off. Didn't you think I did it beautifully?"
"Beautifully," 1 admitted. "I envied you. There was I —"
"Yes, I can imagine. There were you, shuffling from foot to foot, staring blankly at your friend, trying to make con¬versation, I know. That's how I used to be myself, before I studied, and went into the thing professionally, I don't say I am perfect yet. A railway-station is the most difficult of all places to act in, as you discovered for yourself."
"But," I said, "I wasn't trying to act. I really felt."
"So did I, my boy," said Le Ros. "You can't act without feeling. Didn't you see those tears in my eyes when the train started? I hadn't forced them. I tell you I was moved. So were you, I dare say. But you couldn't have pumped up a tear to prove it. You can't express your feeling. In other words, you can't act. At any rate," he added kindly, "not in a railway-station."
"Teach me!" I cried.
He looked thoughtfully at me,
"Weil," he said at length, "the seeing-off season is practi¬cally over. Yes, I'll give you a course, I have a good many pupils on hand already; but yes," he said, consulting an or¬nate note-book, "I could give you an hour on Tuesdays and Fridays,"
His terms, I confess, are rather high. But 1 do not grudge the investment.