1 p.m.
The shops , the carriages , the people , the odds and ends of life one sees , the drifting to and fro of folk , the `` bits '' of existence , glimpses into shadowy corners , the dresses , the women ; dear me , where shall we get to ? At all events , the fact remains that to anyone with an eye the best entertainment in the world is a lounge in London streets . Theatres , concerts , séances , Albert Halls , museums , galleries , are but set and formal shows ; a great weariness , for the most part , and who the deuce would care to go and gaze at them again who could lounge in Piccadilly ? It is well worth a ten-pound note any day in May ; fifty pounds sometimes at 1 p.m. , merely to look on , I mean , it is worth it ; but you can see this living show for nothing . Let the grandees go to the opera ; for me , the streets . So I ca n't throw dirt at Raleigh , who often had a hatful of money , and could and did just what seemed pleasant in his sight . But the money went like water , and in order to get further supplies , the idle , good-for-nothing , lazy dog worked like a prime minister with telegrams , letters , newspapers , and so on , worked like a prime minister -- at betting .