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.