It was the morning of the 10th of November, and we were both of us glancing, somewhat anxiously, through the police reports.

The usual batch of young men had been summoned for creating the usual disturbance the night before at the Criterion.

My friend the churchwarden has boys of his own, and a nephew of mine, upon whom I am keeping a fatherly eye, is by a fond mother supposed to be in London for the sole purpose of studying engineering.

No names we knew happened, by fortunate chance, to be in the list of those detained in custody, and, relieved, we fell to moralising upon the folly and depravity of youth.
"It is very remarkable," said my friend the churchwarden, "how the Criterion retains its position in this respect.

It was just so when I was young; the evening always wound up with a row at the Criterion." "So meaningless," I remarked.
"So monotonous," he replied.