It was, in short, a typical winter's morning in Bond Street when everything seemed gay, sumptuous and debonair. Mr. Eustace Charliewood was greeted several times by various friends as he walked slowly up the street. But his manner in reply was rather languid, and his clean-shaven cheeks lacked the colour that the eager air had given to most of the pedestrians. He was a tall, well-built man, with light close-cropped hair and a large intelligent face. His eyes were light blue in colour, not very direct in expression, and were beginning to be surrounded by the fine wrinkles that middle age and a life of pleasure imprint. The nose was aquiline, the mouth clean cut and rather full. In age one would have put Mr. Charliewood down as four and forty, in status a man accustomed to move in good society, though probably more frequently the society of the club than that of the drawing-room. When he was nearly at the mouth of New Bond Street, Mr. Charliewood stopped at a small and expensive-looking hairdresser's and perfumer's, passed through its revolving glass doors and bowed to a stately young lady with wonderfully-arranged coils of shining hair, who sat behind a little glass counter covered with cut-glass bottles of scent and ivory manicure sets. "Good-morning, Miss Carling," he said easily and in a pleasant voice. "Is Proctor disengaged?" "Yes, Mr. Charliewood," the girl answered, "he's quite ready for you if you'll go up-stairs." "Quite well, my dear?" Mr. Charliewood said, with his hand upon the door which led inwards to the toilette saloons. "Perfectly, thank you, Mr. Charliewood. But you're looking a little seedy this morning." He made a gesture with his glove which he had just taken off. "Ah well," he said, "very late last night, Miss Carling. It's the price one has to pay, you know! But Proctor will soon put me right." "Hope so, I'm sure," she answered, wagging a slim finger at him. "Oh, you men about town!" He smiled back at her, entered the saloon and mounted some thickly carpeted stairs upon the left. At the top of the stairs a glass door opened into a little ante-room, furnished with a few arm-chairs and small tables on which _Punch_ and other journals were lying. Beyond, another door stood half open, and at the noise of Mr. Charliewood's entrance a short, clean-shaved, Jewish-looking man came through it and began to help the visitor out of his dark-blue overcoat lined and trimmed with astrachan fur. Together the two men went into the inner room, where Mr. Charliewood took off his coat and collar and sat down upon a padded chair in front of a marble basin and a long mirror. He saw himself in the glass, a handsome, tired face, the hair too light to show the greyness at the temples, but hinting at that and growing a little thin upon the top. The whole face, distinguished as it was, bore an impress of weariness and dissipation, the face of a man who lived for material enjoyment, and did so without cessation.