“It was like heaven,” said the sempstress, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye with her apron. “Was it, indeed?” said a full-bodied, good-humoured-looking gentleman, who had paused on his way to his official duties to listen, and who now pushed himself forward with an easy condescension. This was Mr. Pepys himself, no less, who, brought to a stop between sense and sensibility, had discovered no choice but to fall slave to those transports with which emotional music always filled him. Yet, astounded as he was by the performance, his eye--a pretty shrewd and noticing one--had been no less observant than his ear. He wrinkled it quizzically at the little beauty. “Was it?” says he. “Well, faith, pretty angel, you ought to know.” He was very handsomely dressed in a blue jackanapes coat, then come into fashion, with silver buttons, a pair of fine white stockings, and a white plume in his hat; and he appeared if anything a little conscious of his finery. But whether it was from his assurance, which seemed unjustified of any exceptional good looks, or the thickness of his calves, which were stupendous, he failed to impress the sempstress, who, heaving a petulant shoulder at him, with a “La, sir, I know I am no angel!” tripped about and away, her nose in the air. Mr. Pepys chuckled into his chin (though no more than twenty-eight, he possessed already an affluently double one), and, looking a moment after the retreating figure, turned to the musician, who all this while had been gazing into vacancy, his hat, placed crown downwards on the stones, his sole petitioner. But, before any could respond to that mute invitation, the new-comer had stooped to snatch up the dishonoured headgear, which he presented with a great bow to its owner. “’Tis the privilege of kings, sir,” said he, “to go bonneted before their subjects. Prithee put this to a nobler use than a beggar’s bowl. ’Tis we that should doff to the prince of harpists,” and he suited the action to the word, standing bareheaded before the musician. He, for his part, sat staring, doubtful whether he was honoured or derided. “Sir,” he stammered, “have I not played to your liking?” “So much so,” answered Pepys, “that my liking is you play no more on the streets. Will you be sensible, sir, and discuss this business? I can introduce you where your talent will receive justice; and I ask no other reward for my pains, which is indeed a duty. Sir, I confess your playing ravished me beyond anything I have heard. Rise, if you will, and walk with me.”