philosopher. He strolled along Piccadilly and turned into Bond Street,
thoroughly enjoying one of the first spring days of the season. Flower
sellers were busy at every corner; the sky was blue, with tiny flecks of
white clouds, there was even some dust stirred by the little puffs of
west wind. He exchanged greetings with a few acquaintances, lingered
here and there before the shop windows, and presently developed a fit of
contemplation engendered by the thoughts which were all the time at the
back of his mind. Bond Street was crowded with vehicles of all sorts,
from wonderfully upholstered automobiles to the resuscitated victoria.
The shop windows were laden with the treasures of the world, buyers were
plentiful, promenaders multitudinous. Every one seemed to be cheerful
but a little engrossed in the concrete act of living. Nigel almost ran
into Prince Karschoff, at the corner of Grafton Street.

"Dreaming, my friend?" the latter asked quietly, as he laid his hand
upon Nigel's shoulder.

"Guilty," Nigel confessed. "You are an observant man, Prince. Tell me
whether anything strikes you about the Bond Street of to-day, compared
with the Bond Street of, say, ten years ago?"

The Russian glanced around him curiously. He himself was a somewhat
unusual figure in his distinctively cut morning coat, his carefully tied
cravat, his silk hat, black and white check trousers and faultless white
spats.

"A certain decline of elegance," he murmured. "And is it my fancy or has
this country become a trifle Americanised as regards the headgear of its
men?"