She was confounded at her own neglect. She stopped dead where she stood. No coach was in sight. The street, which was wide and handsome, was singularly empty. Only one elderly gentleman was approaching. There was something vaguely familiar to her in his walk. As he came nearer, she felt certain that she had met him at some time or other. But where? Could it be that this gentleman, so neat, so portly, so prosperous, with a cane in his hand and a flower in his buttonhole, with a pink, plump face, and combed white moustaches, could it be, Yes, by Jove, it was!⁠—her old, her very old friend, Nick Greene!

At the same time he looked at her; remembered her; recognized her. “The Lady Orlando!” he cried, sweeping his silk hat almost in the dust.

“Sir Nicholas!” she exclaimed. For she was made aware intuitively by something in his bearing that the scurrilous penny-a-liner, who had lampooned her and many another in the time of Queen Elizabeth, was now risen in the world and become certainly a Knight and doubtless a dozen other fine things into the bargain.