One night, as Ginger was going home bent nearly double under a great load of rusty wires after a busy hour among the lilies of Sloane Square, she met Gypsy, flat-iron in hand, staring at one of his flattened rooms like a man in a trance. “What are you looking at?” asked Ginger. “That!” said Gypsy, pointing upward. She shifted her faggot and gazed at the roof, which bore this legend in luminous white paint: THERE IS NO TRUTH IN THE RUMOUR THAT THIS UGLY IF UTILITARIAN ROOF IS TO BE REPLACED WITH A BEAUTIFUL THATCH “Why did you do that?” asked Ginger. “I didn’t,” said Gypsy. “Who did, then?” “I haven’t the faintest idea,” said Gypsy. It was only the beginning. Soon his other roofs began to be adorned with similar statements. A shelter in Kensington inquired: WHO HAS BEEN CIRCULATING THE FICTION THAT OLD WEATHER-STAINED TILES ARE THE LATEST FASHION FOR CABMEN? THEY ARE NOT! And a Canteen in Putney asserted: THE REPORT IS ABSOLUTELY UNFOUNDED THAT BEFORE LONG THIS UNPREPOSSESSING HUT WILL RESEMBLE THE LOG-CABINS OF THE EARLY SETTLERS These suggestions, and others equally attractive, were gradually being negatived on iron roofs in every quarter of London. If Gypsy and Ginger were mysteries to the Cricket-Clubs and Flower-sellers, the unknown Luminous Painter was a mystery to them. But at last they discovered him. They had taken half an hour off one night to look at the pattern of the moon on the river, and they found him standing in the middle of Westminster Bridge. He was very tall and lean, and wore a tight frock-coat that was quite a good green. It had once been rather a poor black. His soft felt hat was also green, and even he did not know what its first colour was. When they caught sight of him he was engaged in removing the hat from his head with an exquisite gesture, and bowing right and left with an unexampled grace. But for themselves there was nobody else on the bridge, yet he performed his courtly salute again and again, north and south, east and west. His deportment was as expressive as it was beautiful; it expressed deference without humility, airiness without impudence, and it paid a compliment not only to the recipient, but to the executor, of the bow. “What _are_ you doing?” cried Ginger, advancing with an involuntary curtsey. The individual almost swept the ground with his hat. “Madam,” he said, sweetly, “I am Bowing to the Circumstances.” “What Circumstances?” inquired Ginger. “My own Circumstances, madam. They require it of me frequently. They require it, alas! of many people. But it is one of the Lost Accomplishments of the age. One of the many. These things were once done with a grace----!” He dusted and replaced his hat. “They stand saluted!” he said. “I don’t believe that Circumstances which require bowing to _ought_ to be saluted,” objected Ginger. “Why do you bow to them?”