In the edge of London town it was, all this little pageant, and from the residence squares below and far to the westward came the carriages and the riders, gathering at the spot which for the hour was the designated rendezvous of capricious fashion.

No matter if the tower at the drinking curb was crowded, so that inmates of the coaches could not find way among the others.

There was at least magic in the morning, even if one might not drink at the chalybeate spring.
Cheeks did indeed grow rosy, and eyes brightened under the challenge not only of the dawn but of the ardent eyes that gazed impertinently bold or reproachfully imploring.
Far-reaching was the line of the gentility, to whose flanks clung the rabble of trade.

Back upon the white road came yet other carriages, saluted by those departing.

Low hedges of English green reached out into the distance, blending ultimately at the edge of the pleasant sky.