of the pavement. Drivers of omnibuses, without waiting for the lifted
hand of authority, halted in Lower Grosvenor Gardens and Victoria
Street. Cabs going to the station, presumably carrying fares to whom
time meant lost trains, spurted to cross a road which would soon be
barred. And small boys gathered from all quarters in amazing profusion.
In a word, the Coldstream Guards were coming from Chelsea Barracks to
do duty at St. James's, coming, too, in the approved manner of the
Guards, with lively drumming and clash of cymbals, while brass and
reeds sang some jaunty melody of the hour.

The passing of a regimental band has whisked many a youngster out of
staid Britain into the far lands, the lilt and swing of soldiers on the
march have a glamour all the more profound because it is evanescent.
That man must indeed be careworn who would resist it. Certainly, the
broad-shouldered young giant who had been momentarily troubled by the
white-red ghost of poverty was not so minded. He could see easily, over
the heads of the people standing on the edge of the pavement, so he did
not press to the front among the rabble, but stood apart, with his back
against a shop window. Thus, he was free to move to right or left as he
chose. That was a slight thing in itself, an unconscious trick of
aloofness--perhaps an inherited trait of occupying his own territory,
so to speak. But it is these slight things which reveal character. They
oft-times influence human lives, too; and no man ever extricated
himself more promptly from the humdrum of moneyless existence in London
than did Richard Royson that day by placing the width of the sidewalk
between himself and the unbroken row of spectators. Of course, he knew
nothing of that at the moment. His objective was an appointment at
eleven' o'clock in the neighborhood of Charing Cross, and, now that he
was given the excuse, he meant to march along the Mall behind the
Guards. Meanwhile, he watched their advance.