I
North of the Strand, east of the National Gallery,
a narrow street winds a devious course
towards Long Acre. To the casual eye it is no more
than a mean and dingy thoroughfare without charm or
interest, but for the connoisseur it has its legend. Here
Swinburne came upon his famous copy of "The Faerie
Queene"; here more than one collection has been enriched
by a Crome, a Morland, a choice miniature, a
first proof or some rare unsuspected article of bigotry
and virtue.
On the right, going from Charing Cross, halfway up the street, a shop, outwardly inconspicuous, bears on its front in plain gilt letters the name S. Gedge, Antiques.
A regard for the mot juste could omit the final letter. S. Gedge Antique was nearer the fact. To look at, the proprietor of the business was an antique of the most genuine kind, whose age, before he was dressed for the day, might have been anything. When, however, he had "tidied himself up" to sit at the receipt of a custom, a process involving a shave, the putting on of collar and dickey, prehistoric frock coat, new perhaps for the Prince Consort's funeral, and a
