Then he ordered his private hansom, intending to visit the Universities' Club.
It was a fine evening, one of those rare nights when blasé London abandons herself for an hour to the delights of spring. The tops of omnibuses passing through Park Lane were enlivened by muslin dresses and flower-covered hats. Men who passed in hansoms wore evening dress without an overcoat. Old earth was growing again, and if weather-wise folk predicted that such an unusually high temperature meant thunderstorms and showers it would indeed be a poor heart that did not rejoice in the influences of the moment.
Two powdered and noiseless footmen threw open the door as Philip appeared in the hall. He stood for a little while in the entrance buttoning his gloves. A strong electric light—he loved light—fell on him and revealed his firm face and splendidly proportioned frame.
He cast a critical eye on a sleek horse in the shafts, and smiled pleasantly at the driver.
"Good gracious, Wale," he said, "your cattle are becoming as fat as yourself."
"All your fault, sir," was the cheerful reply. "You don't use 'em 'arf enough."
"I can't pass my time in being driven about town to reduce the weight of my coachman and horses. Wale, if you don't do something desperate, there will be an 'h' after the 'w' in your name."
He sprang into the vehicle. With a lively "Kim up!" Wale got his stout steed into a remarkably fast trot.
A tall man, who had been loitering and smoking beneath the trees across the road for a long time, sauntered toward a tradesman's cart which was standing near the area gate of the next house, while the man in charge gossiped with a kitchenmaid.
"Beg pardon," he said to the couple, "is that Mr. Philip Anson's place?" with an indicatory jerk of his thumb.