1<br > m<br > Poets of all ages and of all denominations are unanimous in<br >assuring us that there was once a period on this grey earth known<br >as the Golden Age. These irresponsible bards describe it in terms of<br >the vaguest， most poetic splendour， and， apart from the fact， upon<br >which they are all agreed， that the weather was always perfectly charm-<br >ing， we have to reconstruct its characteristics in the main for ourselves.<br >Perhaps if the weather was urdfo~ly delightful， even in this nineteenth<br >century， the golden age might return again. We ell know how pe~epri-<br >bly our physical， mental and spiritual level is raised by a few days<br >of really charming weather; but un61 the weather determines to be<br >always golden， we ~ hardly expect it of the age. Yet even now，<br >even in England， and even in London， we have every year a few days<br >which must surely be wafts and strays from the golden age， days which<br >have fluttered down from under the hands of the r~ording ~gel， as<br >he tied up his reports， and， after floating about for ye~ in dim， inter-<br >pl~etary space， sometimes drop down upon us. They may last a week，<br >they have been kno~ to last a fortnight; again， they may curtail<br >them~lves into a few hours， but they are never wholly absent.<br > At the time at which this story opens， London was having its ~nual<br >gulden days; days to be associated with cool， early rides in the ~bly<br >Row， with sitting on small， grin chairs beneath the trees at the comer<br >of the Park; with a general disincli~tion to exert oneself， or to stop<br >smoking cigarettes; with a temper distinctly above its no~aI level，<br >and a co~sponding absence of moods. The crudeness of spring had<br >disappe~ed， but not its fr~hness; the warmth of the summer had<br >come， but not its shittiness; the winter was definitely over and past，<br >and even in Hyde Park the voice of the singing bird w~ heard， and<br >an old ganlle~n， who shall be nameless， had committed his annual<br >perjury by asserting in the Morning l~sl that he had heard a nightingale<br >in the elm-trees by the Ladies MUe， which was manifestly impossible.<br > The sky was blue; the tm~， strange to say， were green， for the<br >leaves were out， ~d even the powers of soot which hover round Lon-<br >don had not yet had time to shed their blackening dew upon the.<br >The season was in full swing， but nobody was tired of it yet， ~d<br >"all London" evinced a tendency to modified ~ai habits， which ~-<br >