There is a dark, sinister man with a harmonium and a shivering monkey on a chain; there is an Italian woman, wearing bright wraps round her head, and she has a cage of birds who tell fortunes; there is a horsey, stable-bred, ferret-like man with, two performing dogs, and there is quite an old lady in a black bonnet and shawl who sings duets with her grand-daughter, a young thing of some fifty summers.
There can be nothing in the world more charming than the way the Square receives its friends.

Let it number amongst its guests a Duchess, that is no reason why it should scorn "Colonel Harry" or "Mouldy Jim," the singer of hymns.

Scorn, indeed, cannot be found within its grey walls, soft grey, soft green, soft white and blue--in these colours is the Square's body clothed, no anger in its mild eyes, nor contempt anywhere at its heart.
The Square is proud, and is proud with reason, of its garden.

It is not a large garden as London gardens go.

It has in its centre a fountain.
Neptune, with a fine wreath of seaweed about his middle, blowing water through, his conch.