cannot fail to have been observed at that period, by those most familiar
with the streets of London, that there was a larger supply. But hold!
The time is not yet come!

One evening in October I was walking with Henrietta, enjoying the cool
breezes wafted over Vauxhall Bridge. After several slow turns, Henrietta
gaped frequently (so inseparable from woman is the love of excitement),
and said, "Let's go home by Grosvenor Place, Piccadilly, and
Waterloo"--localities, I may state for the information of the stranger
and the foreigner, well known in London, and the last a Bridge.

"No. Not by Piccadilly, Henrietta," said I.

"And why not Piccadilly, for goodness' sake?" said Henrietta.

Could I tell her? Could I confess to the gloomy presentiment that
overshadowed me? Could I make myself intelligible to her? No.

"I don't like Piccadilly, Henrietta."

"But I do," said she. "It's dark now, and the long rows of lamps in
Piccadilly after dark are beautiful. I _will_ go to Piccadilly!"

Of course we went. It was a pleasant night, and there were numbers of
people in the streets. It was a brisk night, but not too cold, and not
damp. Let me darkly observe, it was the best of all nights--FOR THE
PURPOSE.

As we passed the garden wall of the Royal Palace, going up Grosvenor
Place, Henrietta murmured: