Nathan's in Covent Garden (the children of the gardeners of Sharon have
still no rival for flowers), might be seen, three nights in the week at
least, in the narrow, charming, comfortable little theatre. Godfrey had
the box. He was strolling, listlessly, eastward; and the above thoughts
passed through the young noble's mind as he came in sight of Holywell
Street.

The occupants of the London Ghetto sat at their porches basking in
the evening sunshine. Children were playing on the steps. Fathers were
smoking at the lintel. Smiling faces looked out from the various and
darkling draperies with which the warehouses were hung. Ringlets glossy,
and curly, and jetty--eyes black as night--midsummer night--when it
lightens; haughty noses bending like beaks of eagles--eager quivering
nostrils--lips curved like the bow of Love--every man or maiden, every
babe or matron in that English Jewry bore in his countenance one or more
of these characteristics of his peerless Arab race.

"How beautiful they are!" mused Codlingsby, as he surveyed these placid
groups calmly taking their pleasure in the sunset.

"D'you vant to look at a nishe coat?" a voice said, which made him
start; and then some one behind him began handling a masterpiece of
Stultz's with a familiarity which would have made the baron tremble.

"Rafael Mendoza!" exclaimed Godfrey.

"The same, Lord Codlingsby," the individual so apostrophized replied. "I
told you we should meet again where you would little expect me. Will it
please you to enter? this is Friday, and we close at sunset. It rejoices
my heart to welcome you home." So saying Rafael laid his hand on his