“And that is a fortnight ago, my lord, a very long lapse of time for your lordship, who is such a favourite in Society. But I haven’t come here only to disturb your musings; I have a motive, a very serious one, that will ultimately affect you and all London. First of all, I am Dick Danford of the Tivoli, the White Bread, and of the Saltseller.” “Now I know where I have seen you, heard you and applauded you, Mr Danford. Your voice came home to me as would a favourite strain of music of which the title has slipped one’s memory. What can I do for you? I am at your service. Let us stroll under these shady trees, it will be cooler than here, and you will tell me all you have to say.” “Well, my lord,” began the little dapper Tivoli artist, when they had reached the shade of the long avenue, “you know, as we all do, what has happened. It is needless to remark any more on the deadlock of business, in whatever branch it may be, owing to manufacturers and weavers being on the streets and cheque-books having vanished into thin air.” “Yes, and we have no purses, and no pockets to put them in.” “We will not discuss the feminine point of view of this event, my lord; their coyness and pudicity are of course a credit to their sex, and we can but honour them for carrying so high the ideal of womanhood; but that must wear off in time, as the fair sex finds out that the world cannot wait for them, and that the rotation of our planet cannot come to a standstill because the modesty of our wives and sisters is in jeopardy.” The little mimic lifted his sharply-cut features and looked into the long, aristocratic face of his listener. “I am all ears, Mr Danford; but about modesty I have nothing to say. Mayfair is not the nursery for such delicate plants; besides, I think that coyness is already on the wane, for I see several groups of women lounging about. Do not trouble your clever head about that, and tell me in what way I can be of any use to you?”