Which Describes Something of the Misfortunes of Ronald Barrymaine

Holborn was in full song,--a rumbling, roaring melody, a clattering,
rushing, blaring symphony made up of the grind of wheels upon
resounding cobble-stones, the thudding beat of horse-hoofs, the
tread of countless feet, the shrill note of voices; it was all there,
the bass and the treble blending together, harsh, discordant, yet
the real symphony of life.

And, amidst it all, of it all, came Barnabas, eager-eyed, forgetful
of his companion, lost to all but the stir and bustle, the rush and
roar of the wonderful city about him. The which Mr. Smivvle duly
remarked from under the curly-brimmed hat, but was uncommonly silent.
Indeed, though his hat was at its usual rakish angle, though he
swung his cane and strode with all his ordinary devil-may-care
swagger, though his whiskers were as self-assertive as ever, yet
Mr. Smivvle himself was unusually pensive, and in his bold black
eyes was a look very like anxiety. But in a while, as they turned
out of the rush of Holborn Hill, he sighed, threw back his shoulders,
and spoke.

"Nearly there now, my dear fellow, this is the Garden."

"Garden?" said Barnabas, glancing about. "Where?"

"Here, sir; we're in it,--Hatton Garden. Charmingly rustic spot,
you'll observe, delightfully rural retreat! Famous for strawberries
once, I believe,--flowers too, of course. Talking of flowers, sir, a
few of 'em still left to--ah--blush unseen? I'm one, Barrymaine's
another--a violet? No. A lily? No. A blush-rose? Well, let us say a
blush-rose, but damnably run to seed, like the rest of us.
And--ah--talking of Barrymaine, I ought, perhaps, to warn you that
we may find him a trifle--queer--a leetle touched perhaps." And
Mr. Smivvle raised an invisible glass, and tossed down its imaginary
contents with an expression of much beatitude.