latternly
print-dresses washing door-steps, the fishmonger and the butcher on
their rounds, and the tradesmen standing at the doors of their small
shops, drooping for lack of trade and excitement. In the distance a
blue haze gave some grandeur to the prospect, but the view as a whole
was depressing, and would have only interested a student of the life of
London, who finds something rare and choice in its every aspect.
Salisbury turned away in disgust, and settled himself in the easy
chair, upholstered in a bright shade of green, and decked with yellow
gimp, which was the pride and attraction of the apartments. Here he
composed himself to his morning's occupation, the perusal of a novel
that dealt with sport and love in a manner that suggested the
collaboration of a stud-groom and a ladies' college. In an ordinary
way, however, Salisbury would have been carried on by the interest of
the story up to lunch time, but this morning he fidgeted in and out of
his chair, took the book up and laid it down again, and swore at last
to himself and at himself in mere irritation. In point of fact the
jingle of the paper found in the archway had "got into his head," and
do what he would he could not help muttering over and over, "Once
around the grass, and twice around the lass, and thrice around the
maple tree." It became a positive pain, like the foolish burden of a
music-hall song, everlastingly quoted, and sung at all hours of the day
and night, and treasured by the street boys as an unfailing resource
for six months together. He went out into the streets, and tried to
forget his enemy in the jostling of the crowds, and the roar and
clatter of the traffic; but presently he would find himself stealing
quietly aside and pacing some deserted byway, vainly puzzling his
brains, and trying to fix some meaning to phrases that were
meaningless. It was a positive relief when Thursday came, and he
remembered that he had made an appointment to go and see Dyson; the
flimsy reveries of the self-styled man of letters appeared entertaining
when compared with this ceaseless iteration, this maze of thought from
which there seemed no possibility of escape. Dyson's abode was in one
of the quietest of the quiet streets that lead down from the Strand to
the river, and when Salisbury passed from the narrow stairway into his
friend's room, he saw that the uncle had been beneficent indeed. The
floor glowed and flamed with all the colours of the east; it wa