“Ach, zo. Cairtainly ve vill shop. Bot, Bonker, Soud Africa? Vas it not Soud America?” “Did I say Africa? America of course I meant. Well, let us shop if you have no objections: then we might have a little lunch, and afterwards visit the Park. For the evening, what do you say to a theatre?” “Goot!” cried the Baron. “Make it tzos.” Mr Bunker’s shopping turned out to be a pretty extensive operation. “Loan vat you please of money,” said his friend. “A gentleman should be dressed in agreement.” With now and then an apology for his extravagance, he took full advantage of the Baron’s generosity, and ordered such an assortment of garments that his tailor could hardly bow low enough to express his gratification. After an excellent lunch in the most expensive restaurant to be found, they walked arm-in-arm westwards along Piccadilly, Mr Bunker pointing out the various objects of historical or ephemeral interest to be seen in that thoroughfare, the Baron drinking in this information with the serious air of the distinguished traveller. “And now we come to the Park,” said Mr Bunker. “Guard your heart, Baron.” “Ha, ha, ha!” replied the Baron. “Zo instrogtion is feenished, and now goms entertainment, ha?” “With the moral always running through it, remember.” “I shall not forget.” The sunshine had brought out a great many carriages and a sprinkling of walkers along the railings. The two friends strolled among them, eyeing the women and stopping now and then to look back at a carriage. “I suppose,” said the Baron, “zat vile you haf been avay your frients have forgot you.” As he spoke a young man looked hard at Mr Bunker, and even made a movement as though he would stop and speak to him. Mr Bunker looked blandly through him and walked on. “Do you not know zat gentleman?” “Which gentleman?” “Ze young man zat looked so at you.” “Some young men have a way of staring here, Baron.” A few minutes later a lady in a passing carriage looked round sharply at them with an air of great surprise, and half bowed. “Surely,” exclaimed the Baron, “zat vas a frient of yours!” “I am not a friend of hers, then,” Mr Bunker replied with a laugh. “Her bow I think must have been aimed at you.” The Baron shook his head, and seemed to be drawing a moral. “Baron,” his friend exclaimed, suddenly, “let us go back; here comes one of our most popular phenomena, a London fog. We need not stay in the Park to observe it.” The sun was already obscured; there stole a most insidious chill through the air; like the changing of a scene on the stage they found themselves in a few minutes walking in a little ring of trees and road and iron railings instead of a wide sunny park; the roar of the streets came from behind a wall of mist that opened mysteriously to let a phantom carriage in and out, and closed silently behind it again. “I like not zis,” said the Baron, with a shiver.