To my profound relief, the influx of patients ceased, and the practice sank into its accustomed torpor; whereby I was able, without base and mendacious subterfuge, to escape in good time to my tryst.
It was near upon eight o'clock when I passed through the archway into Nevill's Court.

The warm afternoon light had died away, for the summer was running out apace.

The last red glow of the setting sun had faded from the ancient roofs and chimney-stacks, and down in the narrow court the shades of evening had begun to gather in nooks and corners.

I was due at eight, and, as it still wanted some minutes to the hour, I sauntered slowly down the court, looking reflectively on the familiar scene and the well-known friendly faces.
The day's work was drawing to a close.

The little shops were putting up their shutters; lights were beginning to twinkle in parlour windows; a solemn hymn arose in the old Moravian chapel, and its echoes stole out through the dark entry that opens into the court under the archway.
Here was Mr.Finneymore (a man of versatile gifts, with a leaning towards paint and varnish) sitting, white-aproned and shirt-sleeved, on a chair in his garden, smoking his pipe with a complacent eye on his dahlias.