The leaves in the Green Park
were withered and dusty, the window-boxes in Mayfair had a tarnished
look, and horse and man moved with unwilling languor. A tall young man
in a grey frockcoat searched the street for shadow, and finding none
entered the doorway of a club which promised coolness.
Mr. George Winterham removed his top-hat, had a good wash, and then
sought the smoking room. Seen to better advantage, he was sufficiently
good-looking, with an elegant if somewhat lanky frame, a cheerful
countenance, and a great brown moustache which gave him the air
military. But he was no soldier, being indeed that anomalous creature,
the titular barrister, who shows his profession by rarely entering the
chambers and by an ignorance of law more profound than Necessity's.
He found the shadiest corner of the smoking room and ordered the coolest
drink he could think of. Then he smiled, for he saw advancing to him
across the room another victim of the weather. This was a small, thin
man, with a finely-shaped dark head and the most perfectly-fitting
clothes. He had been deep in a review, but at the sight of the wearied
giant in the corner he had forgotten his interest in the "Entomology of
the Riviera." He looked something of the artist or the man of letters,
but in truth he had no taint of Bohemianism about him, being a very
respectable person and a rising politician.
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