'But Islington is not unhealthy, my dear Mrs. Weare! Believe me, the air
has often quite a tonic quality. We are so high, you must remember. If only
we could subdue in some degree the noxious exhalations of domestic and
industrial chimneys!--Oh, I assure you, Islington has every natural feature
of salubrity.'

Before the close of the evening there was a little music, which Mr.
Tymperley seemed much to enjoy. He let his head fall back, and stared
upwards; remaining rapt in that posture for some moments after the music
ceased, and at length recovering himself with a sigh.

When he left the house, he donned an overcoat considerably too thick for
the season, and bestowed in the pockets his patent-leather shoes. His hat
was a hard felt, high in the crown. He grasped an ill-folded umbrella, and
set forth at a brisk walk, as if for the neighbouring station. But the
railway was not his goal, nor yet the omnibus. Through the ambrosial night
he walked and walked, at the steady pace of one accustomed to pedestrian
exercise: from Notting Hill Gate to the Marble Arch; from the Marble Arch
to New Oxford Street; thence by Theobald's Road to Pentonville, and up, and
up, until he attained the heights of his own salubrious quarter. Long after
midnight he entered a narrow byway, which the pale moon showed to be
decent, though not inviting. He admitted himself with a latchkey to a
little house which smelt of glue, lit a candle-end which he found in his
pocket, and ascended two flights of stairs to a back bedroom, its size
eight feet by seven and a half. A few minutes more, and he lay sound
asleep.

Waking at eight o'clock--he knew the time by a bell that clanged in the
neighbourhood--Mr. Tymperley clad himself with nervous haste. On opening