"'What's the matter?" said Jim, shortly. "Anything wrong?" "I should think so. Poor Mr. Brock has been run over." "By Jove! you don't say so? When? Where?" "Yesterday evening, in Marquis Street," said Olive, referring to the paper. "He was crossing the road, when a hansom, coming too quickly round the corner, knocked him down. His leg was broken, and they took him to Charing Cross Hospital." "Poor old chap!" said Aldean, sympathetically. "Deuced hard lines on a man of his age. Marquis Street, did you say? Why, that's where Semberry lives." "He intended calling on Major Semberry, I know," said Olive. "In his letter to Miss Slarge he said so. Dear me, I am sorry for him." "So am I. He's a good old chap, is Brock. May I see the account?" Olive passed him the paper. He read the account, but beyond being sincerely sorry for his friend the vicar, he attached no especial importance to it. Little did he think how significant it really was. This particular ill wind, in common with others of its kind, blew great good to somebody. That somebody was Major Semberry. How good a wind it was for him they neither of them knew till it was too late. _THE FOURTH SCENE: IN FLORENCE_. CHAPTER I. "ON THE LONG TRAIL." The efforts of some people to convert what is purely a business errand into one of pleasure are rarely crowned with success, though there are times when the process can be inversed with some degree of profit. "An extreme busyness is an invariable sign of a deficient vitality." There never was a greater truth than that. Complete enjoyment of the picturesque argues the possession of a large capacity for dreaming and dawdling. One must, so to speak, supply one's own atmosphere, steep one's self in romance, acquaint one's self with the mystery of the past for the toning down of an all-too-obvious present. The successful pursuit of pleasure is every whit as arduous as the compilation of pounds, shillings, and pence. Nay, more so, because for every man who achieves the one, there are a thousand who achieve the other. True enjoyment is, of all prey, the most elusive--the most horribly tantalizing. You think you have it, and "heigh, presto!" the wily thing is "right about face," and grinning at you half a mile away! Call art a jealous mistress if you will. Pleasure is twin sister to her. She demands and will have, the absolute abandonment of you--all or nothing.