The day was young yet, hardly 11.30, and the hot rays of the sun were piercing through the foliage of the broad avenue facing the Palace. Solitary individuals walked on the cool grass, sat on stone benches and iron chairs; but none talked to anyone, and there lacked in this mythological picture the animation that humanity generally brings into a landscape. Birds were busy chirping, making love, mock quarrelling, and the leaves rustled softly as a breath of hot wind caressed the branches of trees.
Lord Somerville lay down on a stone bench, linking his arms behind his head. He let his fanciful imagination have full play: allowing philosophy to suggest to him queer problems concerning the personal appearance of some of his lady friends. A chuckle rose to his lips; a sparkling twinkle lighted up his pale blue eye. He saw at a distance a small, dapper man coming this way; his head was well set on his shoulders; there was no hesitation in his step, no awkwardness in his bearing; one of his hands was placed on one hip, the other dropped gracefully at his side, as he stood within a few yards of the young heir to large properties.
“Who can that be? Can it be my tailor? I can only think of him recognising me at a glance, these fellows know us inside out. Deucedly awkward though to be accosted like this by tradespeople.” And as the newcomer stood close to him, the Earl sat up, and bowed as disdainfully as he could manage under the circumstances.
“I daresay you do not know me, my lord, but I have that advantage over your lordship, having seen you often about town, and frequently admired your equipages in the Park, and noticed your presence in one of the boxes at the Tivoli.”
This was a touch of kin, and something in the tone of his interlocutor cheered Lionel and put him in a happy train of thought. The link with the outer world, his world of ready-made pleasures and strong stimulants, was not quite broken. A rush of the past life came surging back to his mind, and he grasped the hand of his new friend as Robinson Crusoe must have done that of Friday when the latter made his appearance on the deserted island.
“I seem to know you, sir; although I cannot put a name to your face; but let me, all the same, greet you warmly; you are the first that has recognised me since the storm.”
“And that is a fortnight ago, my lord, a very long lapse of time for your lordship, who is such a favourite in Society. But I haven’t come here only to disturb your musings; I have a motive, a very serious one, that will ultimately affect you and all London. First of all, I am Dick Danford of the Tivoli, the White Bread, and of the Saltseller.”
“Now I know where I have seen you, heard you and applauded you, Mr Danford. Your voice came home to me as would a favourite strain of music of which the title has slipped one’s memory. What can I do for you? I am at your service. Let us stroll under these shady trees, it will be cooler than here, and you will tell me all you have to say.”
“Well, my lord,” began the little dapper Tivoli artist, when they had reached the shade of the long avenue, “you know, as we all do, what has happened. It is needless to remark any more on the deadlock of business, in whatever branch it may be, owing to manufacturers and weavers being on the streets and cheque-books having vanished into thin air.”
“Yes, and we have no purses, and no pockets to put them in.”