The Astleys, the Dunstans, the Waverhams--names of power in that
district--go up duly to London in the season, and have sold their
residences in the county town fifty years ago, or more. And when
the county town lost its attraction for the Astleys, the
Dunstans, the Waverhams, how could it be supposed that the
Domvilles, the Bextons, and the Wildes would continue to go and
winter there in their second-rate houses, and with their
increased expenditure? So the grand old houses stood empty
awhile; and then speculators ventured to purchase, and to turn
the deserted mansions into many smaller dwellings, fitted for
professional men, or even (bend your ear lower, lest the shade of
Marmaduke, first Baron Waverham, hear) into shops!

Even that was not so very bad, compared with the next innovation
on the old glories. The shopkeepers found out that the once
fashionable street was dark, and that the dingy light did not
show off their goods to advantage; the surgeon could not see to
draw his patients' teeth; the lawyer had to ring for candles an
hour earlier than he was accustomed to do when living in a more
plebeian street. In short, by mutual consent, the whole front of
one side of the street was pulled down, and rebuilt in the flat,
mean, unrelieved style of George the Third. The body of the
houses was too solidly grand to submit to alteration; so people
were occasionally surprised, after passing through a
commonplace-looking shop, to find themselves at the foot of a
grand carved oaken staircase, lighted by a window of stained
glass, storied all over with armorial bearings. Up such a
stair--past such a window (through which the moonlight fell on
her with a glory of many colours)--Ruth Hilton passed wearily one
January night, now many years ago. I call it night; but, strictly