“I may as well tell you,” he said, speaking in a highly confidential manner, “that this city has not the hundredth part of its former splendour! I have been gravely disappointed since my return. Once upon a time, to look upon London was to look upon a forest of towers and pinnacles and spires. The many-coloured flags and banners that flew from each and every one dazzled the eye! Upon every side one saw stone carvings as delicate as fingerbones and as intricate as flowing water! There were houses ornamented with stone dragons, griffins and lions, symbolizing the wisdom, courage and ferocity of the occupants, while in the gardens of those same houses might be found flesh-and-blood dragons, griffins and lions, locked in strong cages. Their roars, which could be clearly heard in the street, terrified the faint-of-heart. In every church a blessed saint lay, performing miracles hourly at the behest of the populace. Each saint was confined within an ivory casket, which was secreted in a jewel-studded coffin, which in turn was displayed in a magnificent shrine of gold and silver that shone night and day with the light of a thousand wax candles! Every day there was a splendid procession to celebrate one or other of these blessed saints, and London’s fame passed from world to world! Of course in those days the citizens of London were wont to come to me for advice about the construction of their churches, the arrangement of their gardens, the decoration of their houses. If they were properly respectful in their petitions I would generally give them good counsel. Oh, yes! When London owed its appearance to me it was beautiful, noble, peerless. But now …”

He made an eloquent gesture, as if he had crumpled London into a ball in his hand and thrown it away. “But how stupid you look when you stare at me so! I have put myself to any amount of trouble to pay you this visit – and you sit there silent and sullen, with your mouth hanging open! You are surprized to see me, I dare say, but that is no reason to forget all your good manners. Of course,” he remarked in the manner of someone making a great concession, “Englishmen are often all amazement in my presence – that is the most natural thing in the world – but you and I are such friends that I think I have deserved a better welcome than this!”

“Have we met before, sir?” asked Stephen in astonishment. “I have certainly dreamt of you. I dreamt that you and I were together in an immense mansion with endless, dusty corridors!”

“ ‘Have we met before, sir?’ ” mocked the gentleman with the thistle-down hair. “Why! What nonsense you talk! As if we had not attended the same feasts and balls and parties every night for weeks and weeks!”

“Certainly in my dreams …”

“I had not thought you could be so dull-witted!” cried the gentleman. “Lost-hope is not a dream! It is the oldest and most beautiful of my mansions – which are numerous – and it is quite as real as Carlton House.¹ In fact it is a great deal more so! Much of the future is known to me and I tell you that Carlton House will be levelled to the ground in twenty years’ time and the city of London itself will endure, oh!, scarcely another two thousand years, whereas Lost-hope will stand until the next age of the World!” He looked ridiculously pleased with this thought, and indeed it must be said that his natural manner seemed to be one of extreme self-congratulation. “No, it is no dream. You are merely under an enchantment which brings you each night to Lost-hope to join our fairy revels!”