'Where does he give them?' Grail inquired.

'He hasn't begun yet. Bower seems to be going round to get men to
hear him. Do you think you'd like to go?'

'It depends what sort of a man he is.'

'A conceited young fool, I expect.'

Grail smiled.

In such conversation they passed the Archbishop's Palace; then, from
the foot of Lambeth Bridge, turned into a district of small houses
and multifarious workshops. Presently they entered Paradise Street.

The name is less descriptive than it might be. Poor dwellings, mean
and cheerless, are interspersed with factories and one or two small
shops; a public-house is prominent, and a railway arch breaks the
perspective of the thoroughfare midway. The street at that time--in
the year '80--began by the side of a graveyard, no longer used, and
associated in the minds of those who dwelt around it with numberless
burials in a dire season of cholera. The space has since been
converted into a flower-garden, open to the children of the
neighbourhood, and in summer time the bright flower-beds enhance the
ignoble baldness of the by-way.

When they had nearly reached the railway arch Ackroyd stopped.

'I'm just going in to Bower's shop,' he said; 'I've got a message