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In the heart of London a tree is always a delightful
surprise; but here were not only trees, but bushes and even flowers. The
narrow footway was bordered by little gardens, which, with their wooden
palings and well-kept shrubs, gave to the place an air of quaint and
sober rusticity; and even as I entered a bevy of work-girls, with
gaily-coloured blouses and hair aflame in the sunlight, brightened up
the quiet background like the wild flowers that spangle a summer
hedgerow.
In one of the gardens I noticed that the little paths were paved with
what looked like circular tiles, but which, on inspection, I found to be
old-fashioned stone ink-bottles, buried bottom upwards; and I was
meditating upon the quaint conceit of the forgotten scrivener who had
thus adorned his habitation--a law-writer perhaps, or an author, or
perchance even a poet--when I perceived the number that I was seeking
inscribed on a shabby door in a high wall. There was no bell or knocker,
so, lifting the latch, I pushed the door open and entered.


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