It was one of those glorious days of the English springtide when life seems endurable even to the hapless, grateful even to the invalid. A bland breeze rustled the branches of the grand old trees which in double rows framed the open square. Several children were at play upon the spacious grass-plot, which was intersected by diagonal paths of yellow sand. The square was silent, and slept in the voluptuous warmth of the perfect afternoon; but from the north side came the bustle and confusion that resembled the turmoil of some festival. It was the continuous din of the two tides of life which here meet and cross each other, the one surging from Covent Garden and Chancery Lane, the other from Piccadilly and St. James's. Pedestrians and horsemen, coaches and sedan chairs, went to make up a glittering, varied hodgepodge, amidst which flower-girls and newsboys fought their way, together with the venders of "hot buns." Gentlemen saluted with exaggerated gesture, pressing their cocked hats to their breasts and affectedly inclining their heads towards their right shoulder; while the ladies fluttered their fans and nodded the edifices of flowers and feathers which served in lieu of a head-dress. The intoxicating odor of iris powder, of benzoin, bergamot, and patchouli floated upon the air. The beggars leaning against the railing of the square and the Irish chairmen indolently smoking their pipes, for whom life is but a spectacle, watched the passage of others' happiness. A bright, genial sun polished the flanks of the plaster horse in the centre of the square, upon which rode a prince of the House of Hanover. It shone upon the head of the gilded cock which served as sign to Hogarth's old shop, flamed upon the windows of Newton's sham observatory, glistened upon the roofs, played along the line of coaches, set tiny mirrors upon the harnesses of the horses, glittered in the diamonds in the women's ears, and on the swords that clattered against the men's legs, set a spangle here or a spark there, and bathed all things in a blaze of light and joy. Meanwhile a lackey in a livery embroidered in silver had opened the door to the two women. "Sir Joshua Reynolds?" The lackey hesitated, but at the moment Ralph, the painter's confidential man, appeared upon the steps. "Miss Woodville?" he inquired in his turn. "Yes," replied the girl. "Be good enough to follow me, Miss Woodville"; adding with a smile, "You are prompt." "It is the custom of the theatre. Lean upon my arm, aunt." At this moment Miss Woodville was saluted with a "good-morning" uttered by so strange, so guttural, so piercing a voice that she involuntarily started. "Don't be alarmed," said Ralph; "it is the bird." "What bird?" "Sir Joshua's parrot. He was in the courtyard, but had to be removed to the dining-room because he fought with the eagle." "An eagle! a parrot! Pray what are they doing here?"