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About a quarter-past three he withdrew from his beloved sanctum where, half asleep, he had pleasantly listened to old Porter Carrick's hunting adventures in Leicestershire, and quietly proceeded to possess himself of a corner of Trafalgar Square, half Pall Mall (including the Athenæum Club), and the whole of St. James's.

St. James's was his own especial and inviolable property, and never, he was pleased to see, had it looked better than on this especial winter's afternoon—"all frosted over like a cake," he thought appreciatively, "with a red sun cocking its cheeky countenance over the Ryder Street flats, and all the chimneys smoking like hell."

He was to-day greatly appreciative of Mr. Spink's fine array. Spink's shop window was his favourite in the whole of London—he gave it a look once a week at least when he was in town. In other days he had purchased charming things there, but now—well, there were not many women left now to whom he cared to make presents. This thought, coming to him quite unexpectedly, depressed him for a moment. He stared with a sentimental fixity at the god Horus whose beak-shaped countenance returned him stare for stare. Not many women in his life any more, by God!—and Horus answered him, "There's a time for everything!"