It was a beautiful afternoon in the middle of June, and the London season was at its height.  Everyone who was anybody of importance was now in town.  Sweet, fresh-looking girls, in the full enjoyment of their first season, were cantering by, gaily chattering in the Row, their faces glowing with excitement and pleasure as they caught sight of some pedestrian acquaintances and nodded their greetings.  Stately old dowagers were enjoying to the full the bright sunshine, as they lay comfortably back in their well-padded broughams.  Here were brilliantly apparelled men and women, the very butterflies of London society, talking of the events of yesterday, and speculating on the evening’s entertainment, as they walked leisurely up and down the broad promenade of the Park.  But near, and almost touching the skirts of these favored ones, ran an undercurrent of poverty, distress and misery.  So close allied were the two streams of human life, that scarce an arm’s length divided them.

Here and there, just outside the Park gates, were pale, emaciated women and young girls, in whom was left no youth, for in truth their hard lives had served to age them before their time.  With thin, white hands they stretched out their offerings of flowers to sell the passer-by—­bright spring flowers—­crocuses, daffodils and violets, whose freshness and purity served only to enhance the miserable aspect of their vendors.  In verity it was a scene of velvet and rags, satin and sackcloth, riches and poverty:  Lazarus looking longingly at Dives, and Dives going on his way unheeding.

At the marble arch entrance to the Park there stood this afternoon a tall, rather melancholy looking man, dressed in deep mourning.  He was watching, with apparently little interest, the busy throng about them.  From time to time he lifted his hat in a mechanical manner as he recognized some acquaintance, but there was nothing enthusiastic in his greetings.  He had been standing at the entrance for about half-an-hour, when he was roused from his state of abstraction by a tremendous slap on the back, and a sturdy voice, which said: 

“Hello!  McAllister, old boy, how are you?  Why are you star-gazing here?  Wake up, old boy, wake up!”

“Oh!  Jack, how are you?” said McAllister, for he it was, turning round sharply.  “I’m glad to see you.  I thought you were in France.”

“Well, so I was, but the fellow I went with couldn’t speak a word of French, and you know I can’t.  We started on this walking tour through the Pyrenees, where no English is spoken.  The consequence was that we were nearly starved—­couldn’t make the people understand.  I got tired of making signs, as if I were a deaf mute, so I just turned back and came home, and here I am.”

“How are Lady Severn and Miss Elsie?”

“Both very well, thank you.  Elsie is enjoying her season thoroughly.  I never saw such a girl before in my life.  She is out morning, noon and night.  I declare she tires me out, and I can’t begin to keep pace with her.  One ball at nine, another at ten; rush, rush, all the time, it is terrible.  She has the constitution of a horse, I believe.”