There came an afternoon early in July when Hilliard, tired with a
long ramble in search of old City churches--his architectural
interests never failed--sought rest and coolness in a Fleet Street
tavern of time-honoured name. It was long since he had yielded to
any extravagance; to-day his palate demanded wine, and with wine he
solaced it. When he went forth again into the roaring highway things
glowed before him in a mellow light: the sounds of Fleet Street made
music to his ears; he looked with joyous benignity into the faces of
men and women, and nowhere discovered a countenance inharmonious
with his gallant mood.

No longer weary, he strolled westward, content with the
satisfactions of each passing moment. "This," he said to himself,
"is the joy of life. Past and future are alike powerless over me; I
live in the glorious sunlight of this summer day, under the
benediction of a greathearted wine. Noble wine! Friend of the
friendless, companion of the solitary, lifter-up of hearts that are
oppressed, inspirer of brave thoughts in them that fail beneath the
burden of being. Thanks to thee, O priceless wine!"

A bookseller's window arrested him. There, open to the gaze of every
pedestrian, stood a volume of which the sight made him thrill with
rapture; a finely illustrated folio, a treatise on the Cathedrals of
France. Five guineas was the price it bore. A moment's lingering,
restrained by some ignoble spirit of thrift which the wine had not
utterly overcome, and he entered the shop. He purchased the volume.
It would have pleased him to carry it away, but in mere good-nature
he allowed the shopman's suggestion to prevail, and gave his address
that the great tome might be sent to him.