Mr. Radnor had a quaint experience of the effects of the infinitely little while threading his way to a haberdasher’s shop for new white waistcoats.  Under the shadow of the representative statue of City Corporations and London’s majesty, the figure of Royalty, worshipful in its marbled redundancy, fronting the bridge, on the slope where the seas of fish and fruit below throw up a thin line of their drift, he stood contemplating the not unamiable, reposefully-jolly, Guelphic countenance, from the loose jowl to the bent knee, as if it were a novelty to him; unwilling to trust himself to the roadway he had often traversed, equally careful that his hesitation should not be seen.  A trifle more impressible, he might have imagined the smoky figure and magnum of pursiness barring the City against him.  He could have laughed aloud at the hypocrisy behind his quiet look of provincial wonderment at London’s sculptor’s art; and he was partly tickled as well by the singular fit of timidity enchaining him.  Cart, omnibus, cab, van, barrow, donkey-tray, went by in strings, broken here and there, and he could not induce his legs to take advantage of the gaps; he listened to a warning that he would be down again if he tried it, among those wheels; and his nerves clutched him, like a troop of household women, to keep him from the hazard of an exposure to the horrid crunch, pitiless as tiger’s teeth; and we may say truly, that once down, or once out of the rutted line, you are food for lion and jackal—­the forces of the world will have you in their mandibles.

An idea was there too; but it would not accept pursuit.

‘A pretty scud overheard?’ said a voice at his ear.

‘For fine!—­to-day at least,’ Mr. Radnor affably replied to a stranger; and gazing on the face of his friend Fenellan, knew the voice, and laughed:  ‘You?’ He straightened his back immediately to cross the road, dismissing nervousness as a vapour, asking, between a cab and a van:  ‘Anything doing in the City?’ For Mr. Fenellan’s proper station faced Westward.

The reply was deferred until they had reached the pavement, when Mr. Fenellan said:  ‘I’ll tell you,’ and looked a dubious preface, to his friend’s thinking.

But it was merely the mental inquiry following a glance at mud-spots on the coat.

‘We’ll lunch; lunch with me, I must eat, tell me then,’ said Mr. Radnor, adding within himself:  ‘Emptiness! want of food!’ to account for recent ejaculations and qualms.  He had not eaten for a good four hours.

Fenellan’s tone signified to his feverish sensibility of the moment, that the matter was personal; and the intimation of a touch on domestic affairs caused sinkings in his vacuity, much as though his heart were having a fall.

He mentioned the slip on the bridge, to explain his:  need to visit a haberdasher’s shop, and pointed at the waistcoat.

Mr. Fenellan was compassionate over the ‘Poor virgin of the smoky city!’