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�������_���¡��_����ƪ����Ʒ�x���h�g̽������5������������ce��nez and carries a black briefcase in her hand��a first��rate accountant�� I should say�� or possibly an executive in the textile industry.When I cross over Thread��needle Street by the traffic lights�� nine times out of ten I pass a gentleman who wears a different garden flower in his buttonhole each day.He dresses in black trousers and grey spats and is clearly a punctual and meticulous person�� probably a banker�� or perhaps a solicitor like myself�� and several times in the last twenty��five years�� as we have hurried past one another across the street�� our eyes have met in a fleeting glance of mutual approval and respect.����At least half the faces I pass on this little walk are now familiar to me.And good faces they are too�� my kind of faces�� my kind of people��sound�� sedulous�� businesslike folk with none of that restlessness and glittering eye about them that you see in all these so��called clever types who want to tip the world upside��down with their Labour Governments and socialized medicines and all the rest of it.����So you can see that I am�� in every sense of the words�� a contented commuter.��������