There is a decidedly autumnal touch in the air as it plays round George Wainwright, striding across the Park this October morning. There is sunshine, but it is thin and veneered, and very unlike the glorious summer article; looks as if it had lost strength in its struggle with the fog which preceded it, and as though it would make but a poor fight against the mist which would come creeping up early in the afternoon. But few leaves remain on the trees, and they are yellow and veinous, and swirl dismally round and round in their descent to the moist earth, where their already fallen comrades are being swept into heaps, and pressed down into barrows, and wheeled away by the gardeners. The ordinarily calm waters of the Serpentine are lashed into miniature waves, and the pleasure-boats have vanished from its surface, as have the carriages from the Drive and the horses from the Row. Only one solitary equestrian stands out like a speck in the distance; for it is Long Vacation still, and the judges and the barristers, those unvarying early riders and constant examples of the apparently insurmountable difficulty of combining legal lore with graceful equitation, have not yet returned to town. Ten o'clock strikes from the Horse Guards clock as George walks under the archway, and makes his way across to the little back street where the Stannaries Office is situated. Always punctual, he is more particular than ever just now, for all the others of any standing are away; and George was perfectly aware, from long experience, that if someone responsible was not there to look after the junior clerks, those young gentlemen would not come at all. As it was, he finds himself the first arrival, and has changed his coat and rung for his letters, for even the messengers get lax and careless at this time of year--when the door opens and Mr. Dunlop enters, bringing with him a very strong flavour of fresh tobacco, and not stopping short in the popular melody which he is humming to say good-day until he has arrived at the end of the verse. "'And he cut his throat with a pane of glass, and stabbed his donkey ar-ter!'" sings Mr. Dunlop, very much prolonging the last note. "That's what I call an impressive ending to a tragic ballad!--Goodmorning, Mr. Wainwright! I'm glad to see you here in good time for once, sir, at all events." "Billy, Billy, if you were here a little earlier yourself, you wouldn't be pitched into so constantly." "Perhaps not, sir, though 'pitched into' is scarcely a phrase to apply to a gentleman in Her Majesty's Civil Service. However, my position is humble, and I must demean myself accordingly. I am a norphan, sir, a norphan, and have no swell parents to stay with in the country like Mr. Derinzy, whose remarkably illegible and insignificant handwriting I recognise on this letter which Hicks has brought in for you." "Paul's hand, by Jove!" says George, "and this other one is Courtney's, the chief's."