one says he has read of us."

"And why not?" growled the Lion. "I hope Prentiss heard what he
said of our needing a new layer of gilt. It's disgraceful. You
can see that Lion over Scarlett's, the butcher, as far as Regent
Street, and Scarlett is only one of Salisbury's creations. He
received his Letters-Patent only two years back. We date from
Palmerston."

The lodger came up the street just at that moment, and stopped
and looked up at the Lion and the Unicorn from the sidewalk,
before he opened the door with his night-key. They heard him
enter the room and feel on the mantel for his pipe, and a moment
later he appeared at the Lion's window and leaned on the sill,
looking down into the street below and blowing whiffs of smoke up
into the warm night-air.

It was a night in June, and the pavements were dry under foot and
the streets were filled with well-dressed people, going home from
the play, and with groups of men in black and white, making their
way to supper at the clubs. Hansoms of inky-black, with shining
lamps inside and out, dashed noiselessly past on mysterious
errands, chasing close on each other's heels on a mad race, each
to its separate goal. From the cross streets rose the noises of
early night, the rumble of the 'buses, the creaking of their
brakes, as they unlocked, the cries of the "extras," and the
merging of thousands of human voices in a dull murmur. The great
world of London was closing its shutters for the night, and
putting out the lights; and the new lodger from across the sea
listened to it with his heart beating quickly, and laughed to