At twilight, in the Bayswater district, at 36 Lancaster Gate.
It was supposed to be dinner time, yet today, the atmosphere inside the living room was different from usual.
Great Dumas, Darwin, the neighboring Disraeli, and even Mr. Eld Carter were all fervently writing at their desks, making a final sprint to fill the main content of the first issue of the new magazine.
However, in an environment so quiet that only the rustling of writing could be heard, a noise as jarring as a drill doing renovations shattered the tranquility.
Eld's frown deepened with each passing moment, and, unable to tolerate it any longer, he suddenly slammed the table and roared upstairs, "Arthur! If you plan to open a cotton-spinning mill, you might as well go to Lancashire, there's no need to torture us in London like this."
As soon as Eld's words fell, footsteps could be heard on the stairs, and Arthur came slowly down with the violin Wheatstone had given him.