BOOK I.
THE PROMPTINGS OF THE IDEAL.
It was noon.

Sir Edward had stepped from his brougham and was proceeding on foot down the Strand.

He was dressed with his usual faultless taste, but in alighting from his vehicle his foot had slipped, and a small round disk of conglomerated soil, which instantly appeared on his high arched instep, marred the harmonious glitter of his boots.

Sir Edward was fastidious.

Casting his eyes around, at a little distance he perceived the stand of a youthful bootblack.
Thither he sauntered, and carelessly placing his foot on the low stool, he waited the application of the polisher's art.