With what was left after my meal I replenished my stock of matches, and once again made a good harvest. In possession of three shillings, I decided to try an experiment. I would see what could be done in the bar of a public house. In the majority of West End bars, street sellers are not allowed: the advent of a woman with flowers, bootlaces, or any other trifle, always causes a hubbub. The barmaids shout at her, the commissionaire hustles her, the poor thing might be a walking pestilence to judge by the disturbance. This is not a sex question, however; the male itinerant vendor is equally taboo. The objection does not come from the customers, but from the proprietary, and I have never been able to understand the psychological reaction.