* * * * *

It was after sunset that we came there; and all the way along the
Strand, until we nearly reached the York Stairs, I had said nothing to
my man, but had used my eyes instead, striving to remember what I could
of seven years before. The houses of great folk were for the most part
on my left--Italianate in design, with the river seen between them, and
lesser houses, of the architecture that is called "magpie," on the
right. The way was very foul, for there had been rain that morning, and
there seemed nothing to carry the filth away: in places faggots had been
thrown down to enable carts to pass over. The Strand was very full of
folk of all kinds going back to their houses for supper.

Covent Garden Piazza was a fairer place altogether. It was enclosed in
railings, and a sun-dial stood in the centre; and on the south was the
space for the market, with a cobbled pavement. To the east of St. Paul's
Church stood the greater houses, built on arcades, where many
fashionable people of the Court lived or had their lodgings, and it was
in one of these that I too was to lodge: for I had bidden my Cousin
Jermyn to do the best he could for me, and his letter had reached me at
Dover, telling me to what place I was to come.

As I sat on my horse, waiting while my man went in to one of the
doorways to inquire, a gentleman ran suddenly out of another, with no
hat on his head.

"Why, you are my Cousin Roger, are you not?" he cried from the steps.

"Then you are my Cousin Tom Jermyn," I said.