some roses for my room on your way home. I'm expectin' someone to have
tea with the poor victim of prophecy this afternoon."

The Prophet kissed his grandmother, put on his overcoat and stepped into
the square.

It was a bright, frosty, genial day, and he resolved to walk to
Jellybrand's Library.

London was looking quite light-hearted in the dry, cold air, which set a
bloom even upon the cheeks of the ambassadors who were about, and caused
the butcher boys to appear like peonies. The crossing-sweepers swept
nothing vigorously, and were rewarded with showers of pence from
pedestrians delighting in the absence of mud. Crystal as some garden
of an eternal city seemed the green Park, wrapped in its frosty mantle
embroidered with sunbeams. Even the drivers of the "growlers" were
moderately cheerful--a very rare occurrence--and the blind man of
Piccadilly smiled as he roared along the highway, striking the feet of
the charitable with the wand which was the emblem of his profession.

Only the Prophet was solemn on this delicious afternoon. People looked
at him and thought that he must surely be the richest man of the town.
His face was so sad.

He wound across the whirlpool, where the green image postures to the
human streams that riot below it. He saw beneath their rooves of ostrich
feathers the girls shake their long earrings above sweet violets and
roses fainting with desire to be bought by country cousins.

"Where is eleven hundred Z, if you please?" he asked the Shaftesbury