gton Road
he found a long procession of wagons slowly making their way into the
great city; but this dull, drowsy noise was not ungrateful; in much
content and idly he walked away eastward, looking in from time to time
at the beautiful greensward of Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park. He was
in no hurry. He liked the stillness, the gracious coolness and quietude
of the morning, after the hot and feverish nights at the theatre. When
at length he reached his lodging in Piccadilly, let himself in with his
latch-key, and went up-stairs to his rooms, he did not go to bed at
once. He drew an easy-chair to the front window, threw himself into it,
lit a cigarette, and stared absently across to the branching elms and
grassy undulations of the Green Park. Perhaps he was thinking of the
pretty, fantastic little comedy that had just been performed up in that
garden at Campden Hill--like some dream-picture out of Boccaccio. And if
he chanced to recall the fact that the actor who originally played the
part of Damon, at Drury Lane, some hundred and forty years ago, married
in real life an earl's daughter, that was but a passing fancy. Of Lord
Fareborough's three daughters, it was neither Lady Sybil nor Lady
Rosamund, it was the married sister, Lady Adela Cunyngham, who had
constituted herself his particular friend.

CHAPTER II.

THE GREAT GOD PAN.

Late as he went to bed, sleep did not long detain him, for, in his own
happy-go-lucky, troubadour sort of life, he was one of the most occupied
of men even in this great, hurrying, bustling capital of the world. As
soon as he had donned his dressing-gown and come into the sitting-room,
he swallowed a cup of coffee that was waiting for him, and then, to make
sure that unholy hours and cigarettes had not hurt his voice, he dabbed
a note on the piano, and began to practise, in the open-throated Italian
fashion, those _vocalises_ which sound so strangely to the
uninstructed ear. He rang for breakfast. He glanced in a despairing way
at the pile of letters and parcels awaiting him, the former, no doubt,
mostly invitations, the latter, as he could guess, proofs of his latest
sittings to the photographers, albums and birth-day books sent for his
autograph, music beseeching commendation, even manuscript plays
accompanied by pathetic appeals from unknown authors. Then there was a
long row of potted scarlet geraniums and large white daisies which the
house-porter had ranged by the window; and