Fred could not remember when he had last felt such impatience for anything. Generally, he took life slow and sweet - some might say in idleness. That face, though! It was like a siren song. It lured him back to Henry Winstone's studio despite his usual languor.
He finished some commissions for his father, which had taken him to Threadneedle Street. Seen in the morning light, the whole area had become alive with frantic people hurrying to and fro, dodging carts, cabs and omnibuses that rattled and bumped along in all directions according to the driver's whim. A flock of sheep was being driven amongst all this rush and madness through Leadenhall Street to Smithfields. Their noisy and unrelenting disapproval at being prodded and pushed along streets full of iron-shod vehicles and neighing,
