When John returned to Mariton Street that evening, the beauty of London burned in his blood. He had given himself up to pleasant vagabondage all that day, abandoning the quest of livelihood. On the morrow he would begin that grim task. So after sending the address for his luggage to be forwarded, noon found him walking along the road by the garden wall of Buckingham Palace, towards Hyde Park. It was sunny, and the pleasant hum of traffic, the bright-faced messenger boys, the nurse girls with their well-dressed children, the crescendo of an approaching bus, the lovely elegance of the lady whose car went parkwards for an airing, the stately fronts of the houses, the sun-gleamed masses of clouds that backed the dark figure of the charioteer on the quadriga near Green Park--all these things were part of this wonderful song of life. It was almost incredible that he should seek a niche in all this splendour. Those people around him seemed so well established; had they ever begun, or had they been mere victims of circumstances? He watched a couple of riders turn in at Hyde Park Corner; a fresh-faced young man, stolid with good food and no worry, accompanied a fragile girl, whose well-tailored riding habit for a moment called up another figure he knew well in similar attire. He followed in at the gates and turned to the left, wondering if ever he and Muriel would ride together down that glorious stretch. He sat down on one of the chairs and watched the riders. Children accompanied by grooms, elderly army officers, a very stout lady who appeared to break down the fetlocks of her mount, a tall girl in black top-boots, who galloped, with splendid hands, and laughed back at two young men who made desperate efforts to keep with her.