The first bustle of installation over, time hung heavy on his hands.  July loomed distant, as in some future century; Antonia’s eyes beckoned him faintly, hopelessly.  She would not even be coming back to England for another month.

. . .  I met a young foreigner in the train from Dover [he wrote to her]—­a curious sort of person altogether, who seems to have infected me.  Everything here has gone flat and unprofitable; the only good things in life are your letters . . . .  John Noble dined with me yesterday; the poor fellow tried to persuade me to stand for Parliament.  Why should I think myself fit to legislate for the unhappy wretches one sees about in the streets?  If people’s faces are a fair test of their happiness, I’ d rather not feel in any way responsible . . . .

The streets, in fact, after his long absence in the East, afforded him much food for thought:  the curious smugness of the passers-by; the utterly unending bustle; the fearful medley of miserable, over-driven women, and full-fed men, with leering, bull-beef eyes, whom he saw everywhere—­in club windows, on their beats, on box seats, on the steps of hotels, discharging dilatory duties; the appalling chaos of hard-eyed, capable dames with defiant clothes, and white-cheeked hunted-looking men; of splendid creatures in their cabs, and cadging creatures in their broken hats—­the callousness and the monotony!

One afternoon in May he received this letter couched in French: 

                                   3, Blank row
          
                              Westminster. 
My dear sir,

Excuse me for recalling to your memory the offer of assistance you so kindly made me during the journey from Dover to London, in which I was so fortunate as to travel with a man like you.  Having beaten the whole town, ignorant of what wood to make arrows, nearly at the end of my resources, my spirit profoundly discouraged, I venture to avail myself of your permission, knowing your good heart.  Since I saw you I have run through all the misfortunes of the calendar, and cannot tell what door is left at which I have not knocked.  I presented myself at the business firm with whose name you supplied me, but being unfortunately in rags, they refused to give me your address.  Is this not very much in the English character?  They told me to write, and said they would forward the letter.  I put all my hopes in you. 
     Believe me, my dear sir,
          (whatever you may decide)
               Your devoted
                    Louis Ferrand.

Shelton looked at the envelope, and saw, that it, bore date a week ago.  The face of the young vagrant rose before him, vital, mocking, sensitive; the sound of his quick French buzzed in his ears, and, oddly, the whole whiff of him had a power of raising more vividly than ever his memories of Antonia.  It had been at the end of the journey from Hyeres to London that he had met him; that seemed to give the youth a claim.