"To London, you say? Did he leave no address?"

"No, sir; that he did not," said the good lodginghouse landlady, sniffing for the twentieth time; "but there, he always was unmethodistical, not one to say when or what-and we can't look for old heads on young shoulders. Yes, sir, my husband shall write as soon as we hears anything; and shall I send the washing to the same address? Yes, sir, thank you." She held Mr Harefel's card in a corner of her apron, and stood on her threshold, benignly superior to the vagaries of young men.

PART V.

CHAPTER XX.

MONDAY.

ONE of the first real summer days had come to London. The leaves were still bright and fresh from spring showers, and their green showed the more delicate for the blackness of old trunks and branches, which had known many fogs and ceaseless smoke. The turf was young and springy, the air soft and fitful. The Row was full of people tempted by the beauty of the evening. There were many maidens, fresh as the leaves, not yet wearied by close rooms and late hours; and fairest among the maidens, glad as a young huntress in the morning of the world, was Katharine Adare. Tolerant of the girls about her, pleased and amused by the young men of fashion, deeply attached to the noble animal who carried her so well, she moved as if to music, and the eyes of the crowd followed her in

wonder. Irvine Dale, on his way from the station, leaned back in the corner of his hansom, and abandoned himself to the same sweet influence of the time. His restless eyes were half closed, and he made a pleasure of breathing. Ever quick to catch the spirit of his surroundings, joyous or sad, he felt the dawning summer in his blood and brain. Formless poetry seemed to rise unbidden to his lips. He was beginning to live once more. Surely he had been dead or sleeping through the damp Oxford winter. He awoke to life and light, and warmth and comfort. Comfort demands no ecstasy nor passion. She soothes the senses, lulls the conscience, blurs past evils into a mere vague background which throws into relief the pleasures of the present. Comfort is a solid fact in a world of shadows. The London of to-day takes great pains to be comfortable. Our landscapes must be soft as our sofas, our comedies mildly agreeable as our claret. The drama must be fitted to the properties. Art and Literature are the handmaids of refined upholstery. Wood-pavement changes clangour to murmur, and the city roars as gently as a suckingdove. Once in twenty-four hours occurs the great event. The day is adapted to the dinner. this our senses are educated and doctored. They

For