But Earlsfield was already passed, and we were reaching Wimbledon.  Here M. Zola’s impressions changed.  True, he did not have occasion to perambulate what he would doubtless have called the ‘phalansterian’ streets of new South Wimbledon.  I spared him the sight of the chess-board of bricks and mortar into which the speculative builder has turned acre after acre north of Merton High Street.  But the Hill Road, the Broadway, the Worple Road, and the various turnings that climb towards the Ridgeway pleased him.  And he commented very favourably on the shops in the Broadway and the Hill Road, which in the waning sunshine still looked gay and bright.  At every moment he stopped to examine something.  Such displays of fruit, and fish, poultry, meat, and provisions of all kinds; the drapers’ windows all aglow with summer fabrics, and those of the jewellers coruscating with gold and gems.  Then the public-houses —­dignified by the name of hotels, though I explained that they had no hotel accommodation—­bespoke all the wealth of a powerful trade.

There was an imposing bank, too, and a stylish carriage builder’s, with furniture shops, stationers, pastrycooks, hairdressers, ironmongers, and so forth, whose displays testified to the prosperity of the town.  Again and again did M. Zola express the opinion that these Wimbledon shops were by far superior to such as one would find in a French town of corresponding size and at a similar distance from the capital.

We sauntered up and down the Hill Road, looking in at the Free Library on our way.  Then, on passing the Alexandra Road, I explained to Desmoulin that he would sleep there, at No. 20, where Wareham has a local office and where his managing clerk, Everson by name, resides.

The arrangement with Wareham had been concluded so precipitately that, to spare him unnecessary trouble at home, we had arranged to dine that evening at a local restaurant—­in fact, the only restaurant possessed by Wimbledon.  Wareham was to join us there.  The proprietor, Mr. Genoni, is of foreign origin, but Wareham knowing him personally had assured me that even should he suspect our friend’s identity his discretion might readily be relied upon.  And so the sequel proved.  During our repast, however, I felt a little doubtful about one of the waiters who know French, and I therefore cautioned M. Zola and M. Desmoulin to be as reticent as possible.

After dinner we adjourned to Wareham’s house in Prince’s Road, where Mrs. Wareham gave the travellers the most cordial of welcomes.  The conversation was chiefly confined to the question of finding some suitable place where M. Zola might settle down for his term of exile.  He, himself, was so taken with what he had seen of Wimbledon that he suggested renting a furnished house there.  This seemed a trifle dangerous, both to Wareham and myself; but the novelist was not to be gainsaid; and as Wareham, in anticipation of his services being required, had made special arrangements to give M. Zola most of his time on the morrow, we arranged to see some house agents, engage a landau, and drive round to visit such places as might seem suitable.