ll open. As he passed along Oxford Street, monarch it seemed of all
he beheld, his eyes fell on Peter Robinson's windows, glittering with
lights, and gay with spring ribbons, laces, and bright silks. An idea
rushed into his mind. Only the week before, on his first visit to
the new Chelsea quarters whither Cuningham and Watson had betaken
themselves, he had stumbled upon an odd little scene in the still
bare, ungarnished studio. Cuningham, who had been making money with
some rapidity of late, was displaying before the half-sympathetic,
half-sarcastic eyes of Watson, some presents that he was just sending
off to his mother and sisters in Scotland. A white dress, a lace
shawl, some handkerchiefs, a sash, a fan--there they lay, ranged on
brown paper on the studio floor. Cuningham was immensely proud of
them, and had been quite ready to show them to Fenwick also, fingering
their fresh folds, enlarging on their beauties. And Fenwick had
thought sorely of Phoebe as he watched Cuningham turn the pretty
things over. When had he ever been able to give her any feminine
gauds? Always this damned poverty, pressing them down!

But now--by Jove!--

He made the hansom stop, rushed into Peter Robinson's, bought a
dress-length of pink-and-white cotton, a blue sash for Carrie, and a
fichu of Indian muslin and lace. Thrusting his hand into his pocket
for money, he found only a sovereign--pretty nearly his last!--and
some silver. 'That's on account,' he said loftily, giving
the sovereign to the shopman; 'send the things home to-morrow
afternoon--to-morrow _afternoon_, mind--and I'll pay for them on
delivery.'

Then he jumped into his hansom again, and for sheer excitement told
the man to hurry, and he should have an extra shilling. On they sped
down Park Lane. The beds of many-coloured hyacinths in the Park shone
through the cheerful dusk; the street was crowded, and beyond, the
railings, the seats under the trees were full of idlers. There was a
sparkle of flowers in the windows of the Park Lane houses, together
with golden sunset touches on the glass; and pretty faces wrapt in
lace or gauze looked out from the hansoms as they passed him by. Again
the London of the rich laid hold on him; not threateningly this time,
but rather as though a door were opened and a hand beckoned. His own
upward progress had begun; he was no longer jealous of the people who
stood higher.

Dorchester House, Dudley House;--he looked at them with a
good-humo