He dressed and breakfasted; despatched his servant to see if his old rooms in Jermyn Street were vacant; lit a cigar and strolled out. He had at first determined to brave public opinion in every shape and form, to retain his beard, to wear the curious light coats and elaborately puckered trousers which a Vienna Schneider had a year before turned out as prime specimens of the sartorial art. But even to this determination the night's reflection brought a change, and he found himself turning into Poole's, and suffering himself to be suited to the very latest cut and colour. Then he must get a hack or two from Saunderson in Piccadilly; and as the nearest way from Poole's in Saville Row to Saunderson's in Piccadilly is, as every one knows, down Grosvenor Place and through Eaton Place, that was the way that Laurence Alsager walked. Eaton Place is not a very cheerful thoroughfare at the best of times. Even in the season, when all the houses are full of the domesticity of parliament-members, furnished at the hebdomadal rate of twenty guineas, there is a stuccoey and leading-to-not-much thoroughfares depression about it; but on a January morn, as Laurence saw it, it was specially dull. Sir Charles Mitford had mentioned no number, so that Laurence took a critical survey of each house as he passed, considering whether the lady in whom he had suddenly taken so paternal an interest resided there. He had, however, passed a very few doors when at the other end of the street he saw a low pony-carriage with a pair of iron-gray ponies standing at a door; and just as he noted them, a slight figure, which he recognized in an instant, came down the steps and took up its position in the phaeton. It was Lady Mitford, dressed in velvet edged with sable, with a very little black-velvet bonnet just covering the back of her head (it was before the days of hats), and pretty dogskin driving-gloves. She cast a timid glance at the ponies before she got in (she had always had horsy tastes down at Fishbourne, though without much opportunity of gratifying them), and was so occupied in gathering up the reins, and speaking to the groom at the ponies' head, as scarcely to notice Laurence's bow. Then with a view to retrieve her rudeness, she put out her hand, and said cordially: "How do you do, Colonel Alsager? I beg your pardon; I was taking such interest in the ponies that I never saw you coming up. They're a new toy, a present from my husband; and that must be my excuse." "There is no excuse needed, Lady Mitford. The ponies are charming. Are you going to drive them?" "O yes; why not? Saunderson's people say they are perfectly quiet; and, indeed, we are going to take them out to the farm at Acton, just to show Mr. Grieve the stud-groom how nicely they look in our new phaeton." "You're sure of your own powers? They look a little fresh."