“And why not?” growled the Lion.  “I hope Prentiss heard what he said of our needing a new layer of gilt.  It’s disgraceful.  You can see that Lion over Scarlett’s, the butcher, as far as Regent Street, and Scarlett is only one of Salisbury’s creations.  He received his Letters-Patent only two years back.  We date from Palmerston.”

The lodger came up the street just at that moment, and stopped and looked up at the Lion and the Unicorn from the sidewalk, before he opened the door with his night-key.  They heard him enter the room and feel on the mantel for his pipe, and a moment later he appeared at the Lion’s window and leaned on the sill, looking down into the street below and blowing whiffs of smoke up into the warm night-air.

It was a night in June, and the pavements were dry under foot and the streets were filled with well-dressed people, going home from the play, and with groups of men in black and white, making their way to supper at the clubs.  Hansoms of inky-black, with shining lamps inside and out, dashed noiselessly past on mysterious errands, chasing close on each other’s heels on a mad race, each to its separate goal.  From the cross streets rose the noises of early night, the rumble of the ’buses, the creaking of their brakes as they unlocked, the cries of the “extras,” and the merging of thousands of human voices in a dull murmur.  The great world of London was closing its shutters for the night and putting out the lights; and the new lodger from across the sea listened to it with his heart beating quickly, and laughed to stifle the touch of fear and homesickness that rose in him.

“I have seen a great play to-night,” he said to the Lion, “nobly played by great players.  What will they care for my poor wares?  I see that I have been over-bold.  But we cannot go back now—­not yet.”

He knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and nodded “good-night” to the great world beyond his window.  “What fortunes lie with ye, ye lights of London town?” he quoted, smiling.  And they heard him close the door of his bedroom, and lock it for the night.

The next morning he bought many geraniums from Prentiss and placed them along the broad cornice that stretched across the front of the house over the shop-window.  The flowers made a band of scarlet on either side of the Lion as brilliant as a Tommy’s jacket.

“I am trying to propitiate the British Lion by placing flowers before his altar,” the American said that morning to a visitor.

“The British public, you mean,” said the visitor; “they are each likely to tear you to pieces.”

“Yes, I have heard that the pit on the first night of a bad play is something awful,” hazarded the American.

“Wait and see,” said the visitor.

“Thank you,” said the American, meekly.

Every one who came to the first floor front talked about a play.  It seemed to be something of great moment to the American.  It was only a bundle of leaves printed in red and black inks and bound in brown paper covers.  There were two of them, and the American called them by different names:  one was his comedy and one was his tragedy.