Mr. Wilde is an early riser. Every morning, winter and summer at 4:30 A. M. his portly form――(he is in appearance not unlike Sir William Harcourt and still stands six foot three in his slippers)――may be seen bending over the little spirit-kettle, at which he boils himself his cup of hot cocoa. Donning his work-a-day clothes, he proceeds at once to his study and commences work, continuing steadily to breakfast, which he takes in company with his wife and sons. Himself most regular in his habits, he is something of a martinet about punctuality in his household and perhaps this accounts for the constant succession of page-boys, which so startles the neighbourhood. Breakfast over, the master of the house enjoys his modest cigarette――no costly cigar nor precious meerschaum ever passes his lips――he is a strict believer in simplicity of life as the handmaiden of hard work. He never nowadays even looks at the morning papers, so wholly has he cut himself off from society, though he still goes on taking in the Athenaeum, in the hopes that it may even now do the same to him. So without dawdling over the perusal of news, he immediately resumes work and does not desist until the stroke of twelve, when punctually he folds up his papers, wipes his pen, puts away his books of references and starts for an hour’s walk up and down the King’s Road, Chelsea. With his tall, bowed figure, carefully brushed silk hat and frockcoat which though old-fashioned was evidently cut by a good tailor, old Mr. Wilde is well-known to all frequenters of the thoroughfare. The trades people, too, know him well and often waylay him as he attempts to pass on.