mself of them, he noticed the porters in their
white aprons, and the flight of pigeons, the sacred birds of the
Temple, coming down from the roofs. And he loved now more than ever
Fleet Street, and the various offices where he might idle, and the
various luncheon-bars to which he might adjourn with one of the
staff, perhaps with the editor of one of the newspapers. The October
sunlight was warm and soft, greeted his face agreeably as he lounged,
stopping before every shop in which there were books or prints.
Ludgate Circus was always a favourite with him, partly because he
loved St. Paul's, partly because women assembled there; and now in
the mist, delicate and pure, rose above the town the lovely dome.

"None but the barbarians of the Thames," thought Mike, "none other
would have allowed that most shameful bridge."

Mike hated Simpson's. He could not abide the stolid city folk, who
devour there five and twenty saddles of mutton in an evening. He
liked better the Cock Tavern, quiet, snug, and intimate. Wedged with
a couple of chums in a comfortable corner, he shouted--

"Henry, get me a chop and a pint of bitter."

There he was sure to meet a young barrister ready to talk to him, and
they returned together, swinging their sticks, happy in their
bachelordom, proud of the old inns and courts. Often they stayed to
look on the church, the church of the Knight Templars, those terrible
and mysterious knights who, with crossed legs for sign of mission,
and with long swords and kite-shaped shields, lie upon the pavement
of the church.

One wet night, when every court and close was buried in a deep,
cloying darkness, and the church seemed a dead thing, the pathetic
stories of the windows suddenly became dreamily alive, and the organ
sighed like one sad at heart. The young men entered; and in the pomp
of the pipes, and in shadows starred by the candles, the lone
organist sat playing a fugue by Bach.

"It is," said Mike, "like turning the pages of some precious missal,
adorned with gold thread and bedazzled with rare jewels. It is like a
poem by Edgar Allen Poe." Quelled, and in strange awe they listened,
and when the music ceased, unable at once to return to the simple
prose of their chambers, they lingered, commenting on the mock taste
of the architecture of the dining-hall, and laughing at the inflated
inscription over the doorway.

"It is worse," said Mike, "than the Middle Temple Hall--far worse;
but I like this old