— VI —
Let not my love be called idolatry,
Nor my beloved as an idol show.
—Sonnets
The hour was at hand to which Campion had been looking forward so impatiently; it was about two in the afternoon when he turned into Old Bond Street from Piccadilly.
Bond Street was looking its best on that Saturday. A sharp brief April shower had given a freshness and brilliancy to the various tints of the house fronts; the varnished roofs of the carriages that congested the thoroughfare glanced and glittered with past rain and present sunlight, and here and there, above the crowded pavements, a striped awning or projecting placard gave touches of vivid colour which were softened into harmony by the pearly haze that melted into the tender azure above.
The West End of London, sombre and gloomy in wint
