Raising his hat, he turned into the High Street towards home....
The old man, known to that low class of fellow with whom he was now condemned to associate as "Westminister," was taking a whiff or two out of his old clay pipe, and trying to forget his feet.

He saw Hilary coming, and carefully extended a copy of the last edition.
"Good-evenin', sir! Quite seasonable to-day for the time of year! Ho, yes! 'Westminister!'" His eyes followed Hilary's retreat.

He thought: "Oh dear! He's a-given me an 'arf-a-crown.

He does look well--I like to see 'im look as well as that--quite young! Oh dear!" The sun-that smoky, faring ball, which in its time had seen so many last editions of the Westminster Gazette--was dropping down to pass the night in Shepherd's Bush.

It made the old butler's eyelids blink when he turned to see if the coin really was a half-crown, or too good to be true.
And all the spires and house-roofs, and the spaces up above and underneath them, glittered and swam, and men and horses looked as if they had been powdered with golden dust..