the impossibility of shocking probabilities by calling a hansom, which in itself was absolutely exhilarating.

When he reached the Hospital his pleasure increased. It was too early in the day for many of the old men to be out sunning themselves, but he became immediately aware of the peaceful and old-world atmosphere which hung about the place. A morning breeze was blowing up the river, and delicate white clouds sailed across the sky. In the midst of its trees lay the Hospital, warm red brick, with white pointings and grey stone pillars, on which the sunshine rested softly mellow; with its broad frontage of green turf, and its iron gates, and its little graveyard, where lie the old heroes waiting for the “last trumpet’s sounding.” Everitt had not been there for years; it seemed to him almost as if he had never been before—as if all those years he had lost something. When one or two old men, in long blue coats and brass buttons, and broad three-cornered hats, strolled out of the side gates and stared at him, he felt as if the picture were complete, except that he began to hate himself for being the incongruous feature.

He was directed to one of the brick houses which cluster near the Hospital itself, and closely resemble it in their details; his guide hobbling before him, and now and then throwing at him a suspicious glance. Everything was exquisitely trim and clean; the warm colours, the tender shadows on the old brick, the sunshine, the sober cheerfulness, the lilacs just breaking out in the gardens, the filmy green which daintily touched the trees, were full of delightful charm; and, though the river was not visible, a sort of feeling of its neighbourhood—a freshness in the air, an opening in the distance—added to this charm.

They were not long in reaching the Lascelles’ house, built, like the others, of substantial, warm red brick, square and solid, with well-grown trees about it, and gay flowering shrubs, in which blackbirds were singing, as if London were miles away. It must be owned that, as Everitt walked up the back staircase—which was, however, of oak—he began to feel unusually embarrassed.

The little room into which he was ushered was as different from his own lofty and convenient studio as could be imagined, yet it was all in keeping with the rest. A rough sandy English terrier, with prick ears and bright dark eyes, made an immediate dash at him, and was seized by his mistress. This gave Everitt time to glance round him, and to observe that the room was panelled with old oak, and painted above a dull green; that the light was excellent, and the 

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