The sun that had shone so brightly on Belpher Castle at noon, whenMaud and Reggie Byng set out on their journey, shone on theWest-End of London with equal pleasantness at two o'clock. InLittle Gooch Street all the children of all the small shopkeeperswho support life in that backwater by selling each other vegetablesand singing canaries were out and about playing curious games oftheir own invention. Cats washed themselves on doorsteps,preparatory to looking in for lunch at one of the numerous garbagecans which dotted the sidewalk. Waiters peered austerely from thewindows of the two Italian restaurants which carry on the LucretiaBorgia tradition by means of one shilling and sixpenny table d'hoteluncheons. The proprietor of the grocery store on the corner wasbidding a silent farewell to a tomato which even he, though adauntless optimist, had been compelled to recognize as havingoutlived its utility. On all these things the sun shone with agenial smile. Round the corner, in Shaftesbury Avenue, an east windwas doing its best to pierce the hardened hides of the citizenry;but it did not penetrate into Little Gooch Street, which, facingsouth and being narrow and sheltered, was enabled practically tobask.

　　Mac, the stout guardian of the stage door of the Regal Theatre,whose gilded front entrance is on the Avenue, emerged from thelittle glass case in which the management kept him, and came out toobserve life and its phenomena with an indulgent eye. Mac wasfeeling happy this morning. His job was a permanent one, notinfluenced by the success or failure of the productions whichfollowed one another at the theatre throughout the year; but hefelt, nevertheless, a sort of proprietary interest in theseventures, and was pleased when they secured the approval of thepublic. Last night's opening, a musical piece by an Americanauthor and composer, had undoubtedly made a big hit, and Mac wasglad, because he liked what he had seen of the company, and, in thebrief time in which he had known him, had come to entertain a warmregard for George Bevan, the composer, who had travelled over fromNew York to help with the London production.

　　George Bevan turned the corner now, walking slowly, and, it seemedto Mac, gloomily towards the stage door. He was a young man ofabout twenty-seven, tall and well knit, with an agreeable,clean-cut face, of which a pair of good and honest eyes were themost noticeable feature. His sensitive mouth was drawn down alittle at the corners, and he looked tired.

　　"Morning, Mac.""Good morning, sir.""Anything for me?""Yes, sir. Some telegrams. I'll get 'em. Oh, I'll GET 'em," saidMac, as if reassuring some doubting friend and supporter as to hisability to carry through a labour of Hercules.

　　He disappeared into his glass case. George Bevan remained outsidein the street surveying the frisking children with a sombre glance.

　　They seemed to him very noisy, very dirty and very young.