although children are for ever racing up and down it, shattering the
stillness of the air with their cries, rivalling the bells of St.
Matthew's round the corner with their piercing notes.

But it is the quality of the Square that nothing can take from it its
peace, nothing temper its tranquillity. In the heat of the days
motor-cars will rattle through, bells will ring, all the bustle of a
frantic world invade its security; for a moment it submits, but in the
evening hour, when the colours are being washed from the sky, and the
moon, apricot-tinted, is rising slowly through the smoke, March Square
sinks, with a little sigh, back into her peace again. The modern world
has not yet touched her, nor ever shall.


II

The Duchess of Crole had three months ago a son, Henry Fitzgeorge,
Marquis of Strether. Very fortunate that the first-born should be a son,
very fortunate also that the first-born should be one of the healthiest,
liveliest, merriest babies that it has ever been any one's good fortune
to encounter. All smiles, chuckles and amiability is Henry Fitzgeorge;
he is determined that all shall be well.

His birth was for a little time the sensation of the Square. Every one
knew the beautiful Duchess; they had seen her drive, they had seen her
walk, they had seen her in the picture-papers, at race-meetings and
coming away from fashionable weddings. The word went round day by day as
to his health; he was watched when he came out in his perambulator, and
there was gossip as to his appearance and behaviour.