There at an open window a young man, with a brush in his hand and another behind his ear, stood up and stretched himself while an older lady deftly rolled up a large map.

The barber was turning out the gas in his little saloon; the greengrocer was emerging with a cigarette in his mouth and an aster in his button-hole, and a group of children were escorting the lamplighter on his rounds.
All these good, homely folk were Nevill's Courtiers of the genuine breed; born in the court, as had been their fathers before them for generations.

And of such to a great extent was the population of the place.

Miss Oman herself claimed aboriginal descent and so did the sweet-faced Moravian lady next door--a connection of the famous La Trobes of the old Conventicle, whose history went back to the Gordon Riots; and as to the gentleman who lived in the ancient timber-and-plaster house at the bottom of the court, it was reported that his ancestors had dwelt in that very house since the days of James the First.
On these facts I reflected as I sauntered down the court: on the strange phenomenon of an old-world hamlet with its ancient population lingering in the very heart of the noisy city; an island of peace set in an ocean of unrest, an oasis in a desert of change and ferment.
My meditations brought me to the shabby gate in the high wall, and as I raised the latch and pushed it open, I saw Ruth standing at the door of the house talking to Miss Oman.

She was evidently waiting for me, for she wore her sombre black cloak and hat and a black veil, and when she saw me she came out, closing the door after her and holding out her hand.
"You are punctual," said she.