On Saturday afternoon, the policeman on day-duty at Gray's Inn was standing near the southern portals of that venerable Foundation in conversation with the boy who dispenses the newspapers, from a warehouse constructed in the eastern wall of the archway. It was half-past three by the clock and a fine day, which was remarkable for the season--August--and the year. The sun poured upon the dingy old courts, making them dingier instead of brighter. Where the paint of the windows and door-posts is faded and dirty--where the panes are mostly in want of cleaning--where there are no flowers in the windows--where there are no trees or leaves in the Square--where the bricks want painting, and where the soot has gathered in every chink and blackens every cranny--then the sunshine of summer only makes a dingy court shabbier. Gray's Inn in July and August, unless these months are as the August of the year of grace 1891, looks old, but not venerable. Age should be clean and nicely dressed: age should wear a front to conceal her baldness: age should assume false teeth to disguise those gums stripped of their ivory. It was felt by the policeman. 'We want a washin' and a brightenin' in this old place,' he remarked to the journalist. We want somethin' younger than them old laundresses,' said the newspaper boy. Great is the Goddess Coincidence. Even while he uttered this aspiration, a young lady entered the gate and passed into the Inn. 'Ha!' breathed the policeman, softly. 'Ah!' sighed the journalist. She was a young lady of adorable face and form, surpassing the wildest dreams either of policeman or of paper-man--both of whom possessed the true poetic temperament. She was clothed in raiment mystic, wonderful, such as seldom indeed gets as far east as Gray's Inn, something in gray or silver gray with an open front and a kind of jacket. She passed them rapidly, and walked through the passage into the Square. 'No. 22,' said the policeman. 'Now, who does she want at No. 22? Who's on the ground-floor of 22?' 'Right hand--Architects and Surveyors. Left hand--Universal Translators.' 'Perhaps she's a Universal Translator. They must be all gone by this time. The first floor is lawyers. They're all gone too. I saw the clerks march out at two o'clock. Second floor--there's Mr. Carstone on the left, and Mr. Edmund Gray on the right. Perhaps it's Mr. Carstone she's after. I hope it isn't him. He's a gentleman with fine manners, and they do say a great scholar, but he's a Lushington, and a sweet young thing like that ought not to marry a man who is brought home every other night too tipsy to stand. Or there's Mr. Gray--the old gent--perhaps she's his daughter. What's Mr. Edmund Gray by calling, Joe?' 'Nobody knows. He don't often come. An old gentleman--been in the Inn a long time--for years. Lives in the country, I suppose, and does no work. Lives on other people's work--my work--honest working men's work,' said the boy, who was a Socialist and advanced.