The new year had begun, and had brought no sign from Geoffrey; so Lucius took advantage of his leisure to go westward in quest of his friend. He detested the slow tortures of an omnibus, and was too poor to afford himself a hansom; so he gave himself the luxury of a walk. That journey took him almost from one end of London to the other. The forest of spars, the ropewalk, the open gates of the docks, the perpetual procession of hogsheads, cotton bales, iron bars, packing-cases, and petroleum barrels, gave place to the crowded streets of the City, where all the operations of commerce seemed to be carried on quietly, by men who walked to and fro, carrying no merchandise, but buying and selling as it were by sign and countersign. Then came that borderland on the westward side of Temple Bar—that somewhat shabby and doubtful region where loom the churches of St. Clement and St. Mary, which seem to have been especially designed as perpetual standing impediments to the march of architectural progress in this quarter; then the brighter shop-windows and more holiday air of the western Strand; and then Charing-cross; and a little way farther on, hanging-on to the skirts of Pall Mall and the Clubs, behold Philpott’s or the Cosmopolitan Hotel, an old-fashioned house with a narrow façade in red-brick, pinched-in between its portlier neighbours—a house which looked small, but boasted of making up forty beds, and retaining all the year round a staff of thirty servants. Mr. Hossack was at home. The waiter of whom Lucius asked the question brightened at the sound of his name, as if he had been a personal friend, and took Lucius under his protection on the instant. ‘This way, sir; the first-floor. Mr. Hossack has his own particular rooms here. We once refused them to a Cabinet Minister, because Mr. Hossack wanted them.’ ‘A general favourite, I suppose.’ ‘Lord bless you, sir, down to the vegetable maid, we worship him.’ The enthusiastic waiter opened a door, and ushered in the guest. There had been no question as to card or name. Geoffrey Hossack was accessible as the sunshine. He was half buried in a low capacious chair, his head flung back on the cushions, a cigar between his lips, an open French novel flung face downwards on the carpet beside him, amongst a litter of newspapers. The winter dusk had almost deepened into night, and the room was unlighted save by the fire. Yet even in that fitful light Lucius saw that his friend’s countenance was moody; a fact so rare as to awaken curiosity, or even concern. ‘Geoff, old fellow!’ ‘Why, Davoren!’ cried Geoffrey, starting up from his luxurious repose, and flinging the unfinished cigar into the fire. ‘How good of you! And I ought to have come to your place. I’ve been in London a fortnight.’