He raised his head, sniffed as if inhaling something, and quickened his step.

What a glorious day it was; even Fleet Street had a touch of youth about it.

A flower-woman and her wares caught his eye; he bought a bunch of late violets and, with his hat tilted back, dived in his trousers' pocket and produced a handful of silver. He gave her a shilling and, without asking for change, walked on, the violets in his buttonhole.

He was making west like a homing pigeon. He walked like a man in a hurry but with no purpose, his glance skimmed things and seemed to rest only on things coloured or pleasant to look on, his eyes showed no speculation. He seemed like a person with no more past than a dreamer. The present seemed to him everything—just as it is to the dreamer.

In the Strand he stopped here and there to glance at the contents of shops; neckties attracted him. Then Fuller's drew him in by its colour. He had a vanilla-and-strawberry ice and chatted to the girls, who did not receive his advances, however, with much favour.

Then he came to Romanos'; it attracted him, and he went in. Gilded youths were drinking at the bar, and a cocktail being mixed by the bar-tender fascinated Simon by its colour; he had one like it, chatted to the man, paid, and walked out.

It was now eleven.

Still walking gaily and lightly, as one walks in a happy dream, he reached the Charing Cross Hotel, asked the porter to show him the rooms he had reserved, and enquired if his luggage had come.

The luggage had come and was deposited in the bedroom of the suite: two large brand-new portmanteaux and a hat-box, also a band-box from Lincoln Bennett's.

The portmanteaux and hat-box were locked, but in the band-box were the keys, gummed up in an envelope; there was also a straw hat in the band-box—a boater.

The porter, having unstrapped the portmanteaux, departed with a tip, and our gentleman began to unpack swiftly and with the eagerness of a child going to a party.

O Youth! What a star thou art, yet what a folly! And yet can all wisdom give one the pleasure of one's first ball-dress, of the young man's brand-new suit? And there were brand-new suits and to spare, check tweed, blue serge, boating flannels; shoes, too, and boots from the Burlington Arcade, ties and socks from Beale and Inman's.

It was like a trousseau.

As he unpacked he whistled. Whistled a tune that was young in the sixties—"Champagne Charley," no less.

Then he dressed, vigorously digging his head into a striped shirt, donning a purple tie, purple socks, and a grey tweed suit of excellent cut.

All his movements were feverish, light, rapid. He did not seem to notice the details of the room around him; he seemed skimming along the surface of things in a hurry to get to some goal of pleasure. Flushed and bright-eyed, he scarcely looked fifty now, yet, despite this reduction in age, his general get-up had a touch of the raffish. Purple socks and ties are a bit off at fifty; a straw "boater" does not reduce the effect, nor do tan shoes.

But Simon was quite satisfied with himself.

Still whistling, he bundled his old things away in a drawer and left the other things lying about for the servants to put away, and sat down on the side of the bed with the wallet in his hands.

He opened it and turned the notes out on the quilt. The gorgeous bundle to "bust" or do what he liked with held him in its thrall as he turned over the contents, not counting the amount, but just reviewing the notes and the huge sums on most of them.

Heavens! What a delight even in a dream! To be young and absolutely free from all restraint, free from all ties, unconscious of relatives, unconscious of everything but immediate surroundings, with virginal appetites and desires and countless sovereigns to meet them with. Dangling his heels, and with his straw hat beside him, he gloated on his treasure; then, picking out three ten-pound notes and putting the remainder in the wallet, he locked the wallet away in his portmanteau and put the key under the wardrobe.

Then, leaving his room, he came downstairs with his straw hat on the back of his head and a smile for a pretty chambermaid who passed him coming up.

The girl laughed and glanced back, but whether she was laughing at or with him it would be hard to say. Chambermaids have strange tastes.

It was in the hall that he met Moxon, senior partner in Plunder's, the great bill-discounting firm; a tall man, serious of face and manner.

"Why, God bless my soul, Pettigrew!" cried Moxon, "I scarcely knew you."

"You have the advantage of me, old cock," replied Simon airily, "for I'm —— if I ever met you before."

"My mistake," said Moxon.

It was Pettigrew's face and voice, but all the rest was not Pettigrew, and the discounter of bills hurried off, feeling as though he had come across the uncanny—which he had.

Simon paused at the office, holding a lady clerk in light conversation about the weather and turning upon her that sprightly wit already mentioned. She was busy and stiff, and the weather and his wit didn't seem to interest her. Then he asked for change of a ten-pound note, and she gave it to him in sovereigns; then he asked for change of a sovereign—she gave it to him; then he asked, with a grin, for change of a shilling. She was outraged now; that which ought to have made her laugh seemed to incense her. Do what he could, he couldn't warm her.

She was colder than the ice-cream girls. What the devil was the matter with them all? She slapped the change for the shilling down and turned away to her books.

Tilting his hat further back, he rapped with a penny on the ledge.

She got up.

"Well, what is it now?"

"Can you change me a penny, please?" said Simon.

"Mrs. Jones!" called the girl.

A stout lady manageress in black appeared.

"I don't know what this gentleman means."

The manageress raised her eyebrows at the jester.

"I asked the young lady for change of a penny. Can you let me have two halfpence for a penny, please?"

The manageress opened the till and gave the change. The gay one departed, chuckling. He had had the best of the girl, silly creature, that could not take a joke in good part—but he had enjoyed himself.

Moving in the line of least resistance towards the phantom of pleasure, he made for the hotel entrance and the sunlight showing through the door, bought a cigar at the kiosk outside, and then bundled into a taxi.

"Where to, sir?" asked the driver.

"First bar," replied Simon. "First decent one, and look sharp."

The surly driver—Heavens, how the old hansom cabby of the sixties would have hailed such a fare, and with what joy!—closed the door without a word and started winding up the engine. He had difficulties, and as he went on winding the occupant put his head out of the window and addressed the station policeman who was looking on.

"Has the chap a licence for a barrel-organ?" asked Simon. "If he hasn't, ask him to drive on."

He shut the window. They started, and stopped at a bar in Leicester Square. Simon paid and entered.

It was a long bar, a glittering, loathsome, noxious place where, behind a long counter, six barmaids were serving all sorts of men with all sorts of drinks.

Simon seemed to find it all right. Puffing his cigar, he ordered a brandy cold—a brandy cold! And sipping his brandy cold, he took stock of the men around.

Even his innocence and newness—despite the crave for companionship now on him—recognised that there were undesirables, and as for the bar girls, they were frozen images—for him.

They were laughing and changing words with all sorts of young men—counter-jumpers and horsey men—but for him they had nothing but brandy cold and monosyllables. He was beginning to get irritated with woman; but the sunlight outside and two cold brandies inside restored his happy humour, and the idea of lunch was now moving before him, luring him on.

Thinking thus, he was advancing not towards luncheon but towards Fate.

At Piccadilly Circus there was a crowd round an omnibus. There generally are crowds round omnibuses just here, but this was a special crowd, having for its core an irate bus conductor and a pretty girl.

Oh, such a pretty girl! Spring itself, dark-haired, dark-eyed, well dressed, but with just that touch which tells of want of affluence. She fascinated Simon as a flower fascinates a bee.

"But, sir, I tell you I have lost my purse; some pocket-picker has taken it. I shall be pleased to tell you where I live and reward you if you come for the money. My name is Cerise Rossignol." This, with just a trace of foreign accent.

"I've been done twice this week by that game," said the brutal conductor, speaking, however, the truth. "Come, search in your glove, you'll find it."

Simon broke in.

"How much?" said he.

"Tuppence," said the conductor. Then the gods that preside over youth might have observed this new Andromeda, released at the charge of Tuppence, wandering off with her saviour and turning to him a face filled with gratitude.

They were going in the direction of Leicester Square.