VI

“My dear fellow, just as I'm settling down to do some work, Aunt Mary comes along the passage; I know her step so well. And then it begins, the old story that I have heard twenty times before, all over again. You have no idea how worrying it is.”

Frank laughed, and talked of something else. These discussions of Sally's character and general behaviour did not appeal to him in either a comic or serious light, and the havoc they made of Willy's business hours did not perceptibly move him; he was full of his good looks, his clothes, his affections, his bull-dog, and the fact that his youth was going by, as it should go by, among girls, in an old English village, in a garden by the sea.

Aunt Mary was a woman that a rarer young man would have been attracted by; indeed the delicacy of a young man may be tested by the sympathy he may feel for women when age has drawn a veil over, and put sexual promptings aside. Her bright teeth and eyes, the winsome little face, so glad, would have at once charmed and led any young man not so brutally young as Frank Escott. It would have pleased another to watch her, to wait on her, to listen to her rambling stories all so full of laughter and the sunshine of kindness and homely wit; it would have pleased him to note that she was gratified by the admiration of a young man; it would please him to hear himself called by his Christian name, while he must address her as Mrs. So-and-so, and in maintaining this difference they would both become conscious of pleasing restraint.

His comprehension of life was invariably a sentimental one, so the aunts were to him merely middle-aged women—uninteresting, and useful only so far as their efforts contributed to render the lives of young people easy and pleasurable. In abrupt and passing impressions he concluded that Aunt Mary was bright and pleasant, but tediously voluble, given to wasting that time which he would have liked to spend talking to the young ladies of poetry and Italy.

He scorned poor Aunt Hester. She shrank from him, frightened by his harsh, blunt manners; she was afraid he led a sinful life in London. Aunt Mary had few doubts on the subject, and her comments made her sister tremble. She spoke of him as a most desirable husband for Maggie. “He will be a peer, my dear James. Lord Mount Rorke will never marry again. He is the acknowledged heir to the title and estates.”

And the young man went as he came—full of himself, his clothes, his good looks; bumptious and arrogant, effusive in his love of his friends, and yet sincere. He looked out of the railway carriage window to seize a last look of the green, with its horse pond and its downs, and the cricketers all in white, running to and fro (young Meason had just made a three, and Sally was applauding). The porches of the Southdown Road he could just see over the fields, and Mr. Brooke's glass glittered amid the summer foliage. At that moment he loved the ugly little village, with its barren downs and all its anomalous aspects of town and country. He thought of his friends there, and his life appeared to be theirs, and theirs his, and he wished it might flow on for ever in this quiet place. He seemed to understand it all so well, and to love it all so dearly. He accepted it all, even its vulgarest aspects. Even pompous Berkins appeared to him under a tenderer light—the light of orange-flowers and married love. For Aunt Mary had smoothed away all difficulties, hirsute and monetary, and the wedding had been fixed for the autumn. The gaiety of the day he had spent with the girls, its feasting and its flirtation, arose, memorised in a soft halo of imagination—a day of fruit, wine, and light words, and the dear General, with his St James's politics and his only desire—“a little something to do—something to bring me out, you know.” The pugs, the mangy mastiff, the hospitable house always open, its ready welcome, and, above all, the air which it held of the lives of its occupants; its pictures of white arab horses, and elephants richly caparisoned; the wonderful goats in the field, and the tropical birds and animals in the back garden! Above all, the walks on the green with the chemist's wife, and the annoyance such familiarity caused Mr. Brookes—how funny, how charming, how amusing! He was smiling through the tears that rose to his eyes when the train rolled into Brighton.

On arriving in London he drove straight to the Temple. The creaking, disjointed staircases, with the lanterns of old time in the windows, jarred his thoughts, which were still of Southwick; and when he entered his rooms their loneliness struck him with a chill. He pictured Maggie sitting in the arm-chair waiting for him, and he imagined how she would lay her book aside and say, “Oh, here you are!” He sat down to read his letters. One was from Lord Mount Rorke, enclosing a cheque, another a daintily cut envelope, smelling daintily, came from Lady Seveley.

“DEAR MR ESCOTT,—I have not seen anything of you for a very long time; you promised to lunch with me before you left town, but I suppose amid the general gaieties and friends of the season you were carried far away quite out of my reckoning. However, I hope when you return you will come and see me. I got your address from Mr. ——, but you need not tell him that I wrote to you; he is, as you know, a dreadful chatterbox, and somehow or other, without meaning it, contrives to make gossip and mischief out of everything.

“The weather here is delicious—perhaps a trifle too hot; and sometimes I envy you your cool sea-side resort. I wonder what the attraction is? It must be a very special one to keep you out of London in June.

“Should you be in town next Thursday, come and dine; I have a box for the theatre. And as an extra inducement I will tell you that I have two very nice girls staying with me, who will interest you.—Yours very truly, HELEN SEVELEY.”

Some men of thirty would have instantly understood Lady Seveley's letter. But age gives us nothing we do not already possess, the years develop what is latent in us in youth, and it is certain that Frank at thirty would have understood the letter as vaguely and incompletely as he did to-day. We read our sympathies and antipathies in all we look upon, and Frank read in this letter an old woman with diamonds and dyed hair. He had met her twice. The first time was at a ball where he knew nobody; the second was at a dinner party. She had fixed her eyes upon him; she had prevented him from talking after dinner to a young girl whom he had admired across the table during dinner. He did not like her, and he thought now of the young girls he would meet if he accepted her invitation. Lady Seveley was a shadow; and when the shadow defined itself he saw the slight wrinkling of the skin about the eyes, the almost imperceptible looseness of the flesh about the chin; but, worse to him than these physical changes, were the hard measured phrases in which there is knowledge of the savour and worth of life. He unpacked his portmanteau, and, dallying with his resolutions, he wondered if he should go to Lady Seveley's: conclusions and determinations were constitutionally abhorrent, self-deception natural to him. Were he asked if he intended to turn to the right or the left, although he were going nowhere and an answer would compromise him in nothing, he would certainly say he did not know; and if he were expostulated with, he would reply rudely, arrogantly. This is worthy of notice, for what was special in his character was the combination it afforded of degenerate weakness and pride, complicated with a towering sense of self-sufficiency. Youth's illusions would not pass from him easily; in his eyes and heart the hawthorn would always be in bloom, young girls would always be beautiful, innocent, true to the lovers they had selected; nor was there of necessity degradation nor forced continuance in any state of vice. Love could raise and purify, love could restore, love could make whole; if one woman were faithless, another would be constant; if to-day were dark, to-morrow would be bright. Life had no deep truth for him, no underlying mysteries; it was not a problem capable of demonstration, capable of definition; it was not a thing of limitations and goals and ends; he could feel nothing of this—the philosophic temperament was absent in him. Life had no deep truth for him, no underlying mysteries; he did not dream of past times, and he placed few hopes in the future; life was a thing to be enjoyed in the moment of living, and the present moment was a very pleasant one. He leaned over the doors of the hansom resting his gloved hand upon his crutched stick. He was struck with the pride we feel when we are dressed for amusement and contemplate those in workaday garb; and in these sensations of pride he leaned forward, proud of his good looks, his shirt front, his shirt cuffs, his glazed shoes; he pleasured in the knowledge that many saw he was going to elegant company, to amusement. He was full of scorn for the women loitering, for the clerks hurrying, and especially for the crowds pressing about the entrances of the theatres.

London opened up upon a little black space of asphalt; crimson clouds moved over the many windowed walls of the great hotels, the black monumented square foamed with white water, children played, and the gold of the inscriptions over the shops caught the eye. London was tall on the heavens. Regent Street was full of young men as elegant as himself driving to various pleasures, and Frank wondered what sort of dinners they would eat, what kind of women they would sit by. Then as he drove through Mayfair he thought of his own party. He wondered what the girls would think of him.

Lady Seveley lived in Green Street. When he had rung the bell he listened impatiently for approaching steps, for he tingled with presentiment that he would somehow be disappointed, and he dreaded dinner by himself and his lonely lodgings. Nor was he wholly wrong. The butler who opened the door seemed surprised at seeing him, and in reply to his question if Lady Seveley was at home, replied hesitatingly:

“Her ladyship is at home, but she is not at all well, sir. She is, I think, in her room lying down, sir.”

“Oh, but did she not expect me? I was to have dined here to-night.”

“I heard nothing about it, sir; but I'd better ask. Will you come in, sir?”

Lady Seveley's house was a house of scent and soft carpets. The staircase was covered with pink silk, and in the recess on the first landing, or rather where the stairs paused, there was an aviary in which either hawks screeched or owls blinked; generally there was a magpie there, and the quaint bird now hopped to Frank's finger, casting a thievish look on his rings. The drawing-room was full of flowers. There was a grand piano, dark and bright; the skins of tigers Lord Seveley had shot carpeted the floor, and on their heads, Helen rested her feet, showing her plump legs to her visitors. On the walls there were indifferent water-colours, there were gold screens, the cabinets were full of china, there were three-volume novels on the tea-table—it was the typical rich widow's house, a house where young men lingered. Frank stood examining a portrait on china of Lady Seveley, it was happily hung with blue ribbon from the top of the mirror. It represented a woman inclined to stoutness, about three and thirty. The chestnut hair was piled and curled with strange art about the head. Above the face there was a mask, roses wreathed, and a swallow carrying a love missive, butterflies and arrows everywhere, and below the face there was a skull profusely wreathed and almost hidden in roses. This portrait would have stirred the imagination of many young men, but Frank thought nothing of it—the theatrical display displeased him, it seemed to him even a little foolish. He crossed over to the flowers.

“Lady Seveley will be down in a moment, sir,” said the maid. A few minutes after the door opened.

“How do you do? I am so glad to see you. Won't you sit down? I have been suffering terribly to-day—neuralgia; nothing for it but to lie down in a dark room.”

“I hope you are better now.”

“Oh, when I have had some champagne I shall be quite well. Now tell me something; talk to me.”

Helen was sitting thrown back on the little black satin sofa; she had crossed her legs, and her foot was set on a tiger's head. The ankle was too thick, the foot slightly fat, but stocking and shoe were perfect, and these drew Frank's eyes too attentively. Helen noticed this and was glad.

“So you like Maggie the best?”

“Oh, yes, I like her the best, Sally is too rough. How those girls do worry their father. He has to go up to town every day; he is in the City, and the girls give tennis parties, and drink his best wine. There was an awful row there the other day about the peaches; he had been going in for forcing, and was counting the days when they would be ripe. The young men ate them all.”

Helen laughed. “A sort of comic King Lear.”

“Just so, the girls will have large fortunes at their father's death. I have known them all my life. I used to spend my holidays with them when I was a small boy.”

“And you haven't seen them for a long time?”

“No, I was in Ireland two years, and then I went to Italy. This was the first time I saw them since they were really grown up.”

“And you say they are beautiful girls and will have large fortunes.”

“Yes, I suppose Maggie is a good-looking girl; she is more a fascinating girl than a beautiful girl.” A sudden remembrance of Lizzie Baker dictated this opinion of Maggie Brookes.

“Dinner is on the table, my lady.”

“I think you said in your letter that you were going to have two young girls staying with you.”

“Yes, but they could not come; they were to have been here on Monday. I am very sorry; had I known for certain that you were coming, I would have arranged to have some one to meet you.”

“I am very glad you didn't.” The conversation dropped. “You said you were going to the theatre. What theatre are you thinking of going to?”

“My neuralgia put all thoughts of the theatre out of my head. I have a box for the Gaiety. We will go if you like.”

The name of the theatre reminded him of Lizzie Baker, and he compared the pale, refined face of the bar girl with the over-coloured woman—his hostess. He had not seen Lizzie for a long time. Why had he not gone to the bar room the last time he was in London?

“You have not answered me—would you like to go to the Gaiety?”

“I am sure I beg your pardon,” and then, in a sudden confusion of memories and desires, he said: “I don't know that I care much about going to the theatre. You are not feeling well.”

“My neuralgia is almost all gone. There's nothing like champagne for it. Hardwick, Mr. Escott will take some more champagne.”

There were engravings after Burne Jones and Rossetti on the walls, and Frank stopped to look at them as he followed Lady Seveley upstairs. She went straight to the piano.

“Are you fond of music?” she said.

“Yes; there is nothing I like more than fiddling at the piano.”

“Then do play something.”

“Oh, no, not for worlds. I only strum, I don't know my notes. I strum on the piano as I strum on the violin.”

“Do you play the violin?”

“I can't call it playing, I was never taught.”

“How did you learn, then? It is a most difficult instrument; I couldn't get on with it at all; I will get mine out if you will play something.”

“If you promise not to laugh, I will try, but I assure you I know nothing about it. I borrowed a violin once, and I taught myself to play a tune; then I bought a violin, and I amuse myself when I am alone.”

“How very clever of you. There, you will find it under the piano behind that music; do play something, it will be so good of you.”

“What shall I play?”

“Anything you like.”

Frank had no knowledge of the instrument, but his ear was exquisitely just and appreciative; his artistic desire was febrile and foolish, but you thought less of this in his music than in his painting and poetry. His soul went out in the strain of melody sentimentally; and it leaned him in varying and beautiful attitudes. The sweeping, music-evoking arm was beautiful to behold, and the music seemed to cry for love; all about him was shadow; only the light fell on the long throat, so like a fruit to the eye; the charm was enervating and nervous. Helen looked at him again, and shuddering, she rose from the piano.

“What did you break off like that for? Was I playing so badly?”

“No, no—come and sit down here, come and sit by me. I want you to talk to me.” She stretched herself in a low wicker chair by the open window. There was a church opposite, the painted panes were now full of mitre and alb, and the vague tumult of the service came in contrast with the summer murmur of London and the light of the evening skies. The woman's body moved beneath the silk, and the faint odour of her person dilated the nostrils of the young man. “Talk to me.”

“I don't know what to talk to you about. You would not care for my conversation any more than you do for my music—one is as bad as the other.”

“No, pray—I assure you—I would not have you think that, no.” Helen made a movement as if she were going to lay her hand on his arm; checking herself, she said: “I do not think your playing bad; on the contrary, perhaps I think it too good. How shall I explain? There are times when I cannot bear music; the pleasure it brings is too near, too intense, too near to pain; and that 'Chanson d'Eglise' seems to bear away your very brain; you play it with such fervour, on the violin each phrase tears the soul.”

“But it is so religious.”

“Yes, that is just it; no sen—no; well, there is no other word; no sensuality is so terrible as religious sensuality.”

“I don't know what you mean. I can understand any one saying that Offenbach is sensual, but I don't see how the term can be applied to a hymn.”

“Perhaps not to a hymn, although—but 'La Chanson d'Eglise' is not a hymn.”

Her arm hung along the chair, the flesh showing through the silk as soft as a flower. He might take it in his hands and bear it to his lips and kiss it; he might lean and loll and kiss her. He wondered if he might dare it; but her air of ladyhood was so marked that it seemed impossible that she would not resent. He could not quite realise what her looks and words would be afterwards.

“I do not wish to flatter you, but I think you play beautifully. I do not mean to say that I have never heard any one play the violin better—that would be ridiculous. Your playing is full of emotion. That lovely passage thrilled me; I do not know why, nor can I exactly explain my feeling—nerves perhaps. Now I come to think of it I am ashamed. It was the summer evening, the perfume of those flowers; it was—” Helen fixed her eyes on Frank, as if she would like to say, “It was you.” With a sigh she said: “It was the music.” Then as if she feared she was showing too plainly what was passing in her mind, she said: “But it is nearly nine o'clock. Perhaps you would like to go to the theatre, the ticket for the box is on the table. I should not be more than a few minutes changing my dress. Would you like to go?”

“I don't much mind, just as you like. I heard that the new burlesque was very amusing.”

“Then let us go.”

Both regretted their words; and, embarrassed, each waited for the other to say No, let us stay here, it is far sweeter here. But it was difficult to draw back now without avowal. Helen had rung for her maid. She put on a white satin. Her opera cloak was edged with deep soft fur, and she came into the room putting on her long tan gloves.

“Were you ever in love?” Helen asked, and she leaned back behind the curtain of the box out of sight of the audience.

“I suppose I have been in love; but why do you ask?”

“It just occurred to me.”

“I have never been in love with a ballet girl, if you mean that.”

In blue tights and symmetrical rows the legs of the chorus ladies were arranged about the stage; the low comedians cracked jokes close to the footlights; the stalls laughed, the pit applauded.

“Haven't you? Is that really so? I shouldn't think it would be nice. And yet, if all we hear is true, young men do make love to low women; I'm not speaking now of ballet girls, but of cooks and housemaids. A lady, a friend of mine, cannot keep a housemaid under fifty in her house on account of her son, and she sent him to Eton.”

“Yes, I know; I have heard of such things, but I never could understand.”

“I am glad. But you say you have been in love. Tell me all about it. I want to know. What was she like? Was she fair or dark?”

“Fair. She used to wear a Gainsborough hat.”

“Did you like those great hats?”

“I did on her.”

“I suppose she was tall, then.”

“No, she was short.”

“Then I don't see how she would wear a Gainsborough hat.”

“She did, and looked exquisite in it too.”

“I suppose you were very much in love with her?”

“Yes; we were engaged, and going to be married.”

“Why was it broken off?”

“Her father was a brute.”

“Fathers generally are brutes on such occasions, and there are generally excellent reasons for their brutality.”

“Husbands, too, are brutes, and if all I have heard is correct, there are excellent reasons for their brutality.”

Lady Seveley turned pale. “I did not come to the theatre to be insulted,” she said, hesitating whether she should rise from her seat. Frank Escott was constantly guilty of such indelicate and stupid speeches, and it would be easy to cite instances in which his conduct was equally unpractical. Were friends to speak ill of any one he was especially intimate with, he would answer them in the grossest manner, forgetful that he was making formidable enemies for himself without in the least advancing the welfare of him or her whose defence he had undertaken. With some words and looks the storm was allayed, and they felt that the wind that might have capsized had carried their craft nearer the port where they were steering. Their eyes met, and for a moment they looked into each other's souls. Her arm hung by her side, white and pure, could he take it and press it to his lips the worst would be over—he would have admitted his desire. But the box curtain did not hide him, and the faces opposite seemed to watch; and then she spoke, and with her words brought a sense of distance, of conventionality.

“Tell me, did you fall in love with her the first time you saw her?”

“I think so.”

“Tell me all about it. When did you see her for the first time?”

“It was on the Metropolitan Railway. We were in the same carriage, she sat opposite to me; for some time we were alone, and I thought of speaking to her, but was afraid of offending her.”

“Are you always afraid of offending people?”

“I don't know—I don't think I am.” Then it struck him that she was alluding to his rudeness, which she declared she had forgiven, and he said: “I am sure I can't do more, I told you I was sorry—that I did not mean—”

“Oh, never mind, that is forgiven; tell me about her.”

A little perplexed, he continued: “She was dressed in white, and her face was like a flower under the great hat.”

“It is clear that you can admire no one who doesn't wear a Gainsborough hat. What will you do now that they have gone out of fashion? I am sure I can't gratify you.”

“I wondered where she was going. I wished I was going to the same house, I imagined what it would be like, and so the time went till we got to Kensington. She turned to the right, so did I; I hoped she did not think I was following her—”

“You were both going to the same house?”

“Yes. There were some carnations behind her in a vase, and you know how I love the perfume of a carnation—so did she. She told me of the flowers they had in their cottage at Maidenhead. I love the river, so did she, and we spoke of the river all the afternoon. And when the season was over I went up to Maidenhead too. I had my boat there (I must show you my boat one of these days, one of the prettiest boats on the river). We used to go out together, and, tying the boat under an alder, I used to read her Browning. Oh, it was a jolly time.” The conversation came to a pause, then Frank said “Were you ever in love?”

“I suppose I was.”

“With your husband?”

“No, I was not in love with my husband, he was twenty years older than I. When I was eighteen I was very much in love with a young fellow who used to come to play croquet at our place. But my parents wouldn't hear of it. I was not at all strong when I was a girl; they said I wouldn't live, so I didn't care what became of me. Lord Seveley admired me; it was a very good match, I was anxious to get away from home, so I married him. You are quite wrong in supposing I treated him badly.”

“Forgive me, don't say any more about that.”

“We had rows, it is true; he said horrible things about my mother, and I wouldn't stand that, of course.”

“What things?”

“Oh, I can't tell you—no matter. Once I said that I wouldn't have married him only I thought I was going to die. He never forgave me that. It was, I admit, a foolish thing to say.”

At that moment the curtain came down, and the young men moved out of the stalls. “There are two men I know,” she said, fixing her glass. “Do you see them? The elder of the two is Harding, the novelist, the other is Mr. Fletcher, an Irishman.”

“I know Fletcher—or, rather, I know of him. His father was a shopkeeper in Gort, the nearest town to Mount Rorke Castle.”

“He is a journalist, isn't he? I hear he is doing pretty well.”

“In London, I know, you associate with that class, but in Ireland we wouldn't think of knowing them.”

“I thought you were more liberal-minded than that. If they come up here, what shall I do? I mustn't introduce you?”

“I don't mind being introduced. I should like to know Harding.”

“I can't introduce you to Harding and not to his friend.”

“I don't mind being introduced to Fletcher; I'll bow and slink off to smoke a cigarette. Is it true what they say about him, that he is irresistible, that no woman can resist him? I don't think he is good-looking—a good figure, that's all.”

“He has the most lovely hands and teeth.”

“I see; perhaps you are in love with him?”

A knock came at the door; the young men entered. Lady Seveley introduced them to Frank; he bowed coldly, and addressed Harding. But Lady Seveley said: “O Mr. Harding, I want to speak to you about your last novel; I have just finished reading it.”

“What do you think of this piece?” Fletcher asked Escott, in a hesitating and conciliatory manner.

“I am afraid he will not be able to tell you; he hasn't ceased talking since we came into the theatre.”

“I should have done the same had I been in his place.”

Lady Seveley smiled, Frank thought the words presumptuous. “Who the devil would care to hear you talk—and that filthy accent.” And at that moment he remembered Lizzie Baker. Fletcher and Harding were now speaking to Lady Seveley, and taking advantage of the circumstance he slipped out, and, lighting a cigarette, entered the bar room. Behind the counter the young ladies stood in single file, and through odours of cigarettes and whisky their voices called “One coffee in order,” and the cry was passed on till it reached the still-room. Frank remembered having read a description of the place somewhere, he thought for a moment, and then he remembered that it was in one of Harding's novels. He could detect no difference in the loafers that leaned over the counter talking to the barmaids; they were dingy and dull, whereas the young men from the stalls of the theatre were black and white and clean; but the keenest eye could note nothing further, and a closer inspection showed that even a first division rested on no deeper basis than the chance of evening dress. Civilisation has given us all one face and mind. He walked to where Lizzie was serving; soldiers were ordering drinks of her, so he was obliged to apply to the next girl to her for his brandy and soda. He drank slowly, hoping her admirers would leave her, but one soldier was stationery, and this spot of red grew singularly offensive in Frank's eyes, from the clumsy, characterless boots, to the close-clipped hair set off with the monotonously jaunty cap. The man sprawled over the counter drinking a glass of porter. Frank tried to listen to what he was saying. Lizzie smiled, showing many beautifully shaped teeth, so beautifully shaped that they looked like sculpture. Behind her there were shelves charged with glasses and bottles, gilt elephants, and obelisks, a hideous decoration; she passed up and down with cups of coffee, she filled glasses from various taps, she saluted Frank.

“How are you this evening? Come to see the piece again?”

“Come to see you.”

“Get along; I don't believe you,” she said, and she passed back to her place, and continued talking to the soldier as steadily as her many occupations would allow her.

A few moments after the bell rang, and Frank went upstairs annoyed.

“Oh, so it is you; you have come back,” said Helen, turning; “sit down here. Nellie Farren has just sung such an exquisitely funny song; they have encored it; just listen to it, do,” and Helen fixed her opera glass on the actress. The light and shadow played about her neck andarm in beautiful variations, but noticing nothing, Frank leaned forward.

“Isn't it funny; isn't it delightfully funny?”

“Yes, it is funny.”

Having heard one song they listened to the rest of the act. “Now give me my cloak. Thank you, and now give me your arm.” Frank complied. “You will come home to Green Street with me, and have some supper?”

“I am afraid, I am sorry I can't; I must get home early to-night.”

“You have a key, you surely can get in at any hour.”

“Yes, but I am afraid—the fact is I am dreadfully tired.”

“Oh, just as you like.”

Then at the end of an irritating silence, “I am afraid you will have to wait, I do not think I shall be able to get your carriage yet awhile; in a few minutes this crowd will disperse. No use getting crushed to death! What became of Harding and Fletcher? Did they remain long with you?”

“No, not very, they went away just before you came. There is Mr. Harding. How did you like the piece, Mr. Harding?”

“I always enjoy these pieces, they are so conscientiously illiterate; what I can't bear is unconscientious illiterateness. Nellie Farren has caught something of the jangle of modern life; she has something of the freshness of the music-hall about her that appeals to me very sharply.”

“Do you like music-halls? I have always heard they were so vulgar.”

“Vulgarity is surely preferable to popularity. The theatre is merely popular.”

While Harding was thus exerting himself with epigram, Fletcher stood tall and slender, with a grey overcoat hanging over his arm, and his intense eyes fixed on Lady Seveley. His gaze troubled her, and when he withdrew his eyes she looked at him, anticipant and fearing. He spoke to her until Frank, feeling that he was receding out of all interest and attention, said abruptly, “If you will come now, Lady Seveley, I think I shall be able to get you your carriage. May I see you home?” he said, holding the door.

“No thank you, I will not take you out of your way. Go home at once and get rested, and come and see me one of these days; don't forget.” Lady Seveley smiled, but Frank felt that she was annoyed.

“I wonder if she wanted me to go home with her. That impertinent brute Fletcher daring to come up to speak to us! I was very nearly telling him to go and fetch the carriage.”

He pushed open the swinging doors with violence, nearly upsetting the fat porter. The bar was nearly empty, and he found Lizzie disengaged.

“You look very vexed. Has any one been pinching you?”

“I am not vexed.”

“What will you have to put you straight?”

“Well, that is a question. Let me see. I don't care about another brandy and soda, and if I have coffee it may keep me awake.”

“Have half milk.”

“Very well.” He hesitated, but the inclination to speak soon overpowered him. “I call it bad form, when you are with a lady for another fellow to come up and speak to her.”

“Three of Irish, miss.”

“Why, didn't he know her?”

“Of course he knew her, but that doesn't give him a right to come up and enter into a long conversation when I am with her. I wish I had knocked him down.”

“He might have knocked you down.”

“A glass of bitter, miss.”

“I should have had to take my chance of that. In London people don't seem to me to mind whom they speak to—a low-bred Irishman, who never spoke to a lady until he left his own country.”

“Oh! what a rage we are in.”

“No, I am not in a rage,” said Frank, who at that moment felt the folly of these confidences. “I don't care a hang. It isn't as if it were a woman I cared about. Had it been you—”

“Get along, don't you tell me.”

“I assure you I speak only in a general way, and you must admit that if you go out with a fellow it would not be nice of you to begin talking to some one else.”

“Oh! I never do that.”

“There, then you admit I was right, I was sure you would; I don't care a hang for the lady I was with, but I don't intend to allow any one to insult me. But I wonder how you can speak to soldiers.”

“They are no worse than the others. Besides, in our business we have to be polite to every one.”

“Polite, yes—but I wanted to speak to you, I came down from my box on purpose to speak to you, and I couldn't, you were so engaged with that soldier.”

“He was here before you; you would not like it if you were talking to me, and I were to rush off to speak to some one else.”

“One Scotch and three Irish, miss, and out of the bottle please, our friend here's most particular, he would like it in a thin glass, too—wouldn't you, Ted? and if he could have a go at that pretty mouth he would like it better still. A rare one after the ladies is Teddy. Aren't you, old chap?”

Full of scorn Frank watched this noisy group. Lizzie remained talking with them for some little time, and she did not return until he called to her twice for a cigar.

“How very impatient you are,” she said, handing him the box.

“You were talking to me, and you go away to talk to those cads.”

“I must serve the customers, you naughty man. You can't have me all to yourself. I believe you would like to.”

“That I should. I wish you would come out with me. I wish you would come to dinner.”

“And what would the lady say who you went to the theatre with to-night, and were so mad because some one spoke to her?”

“I assure you she is nothing to me, a mere acquaintance. I was angry because I thought it a piece of impertinence of the fellow to come intruding his conversation when it wasn't wanted; but as for the woman I don't care a snap for her; never did, I assure you: she is nothing to me. I suppose you don't get out much here.”

“We are off duty for so many hours every day; but we must be in at a certain time.”

“But you have got Sundays.”

“We get Sunday in our turn.”

“When will your turn come?”

“I am going out next Sunday.”

“I wish you would come with me; I would take you up the river. You know the river?”

“No, I don't know even what you mean.”

“You mean to say you have never been up the river, not even so far as Twickenham?”

“No.”

“Well, then, you have a treat. The most beautiful thing in England is the Thames—perhaps in the world. Last year I spent nearly three months at Marlow and Maidenhead—we positively lived in a boat. I have a beautiful boat. I should like to take you out—you would enjoy it. Are you fond of boating?”

“I love it. I haven't been in a boat since I left Wales.”

“So you are a Welsh girl. My boat is now at Reading. If you could get away early in the morning we might manage to catch the nine o'clock express that takes us down in a little over the hour. I'd have the hamper packed, and we would have our lunch up in Pangbourne Woods. It would be so jolly. I wish you would come.”

“I should like it immensely; I don't know if I could manage it.”

“Do you say you will come, do.”

Lizzie stood hesitating, her finger on her lip. A girl entered the bar and whispered something to her as she passed.

“I must go away now, I'm off duty.”

“Say you will come.”

“I can't say yet; I shall see you again.”

As Frank turned to go he caught sight of Harding and Fletcher. He did not see that they had been watching him, and when they called him he went over to their table.

“What will you have?” said Harding.

“Nothing, thanks, I could not drink anything more.”

“Have a cigarette.”

“Thanks, I will; I cannot smoke this beastly cigar. I do not know why I asked for it.”

“Sit down.”

The conversation turned on the play, but at the first pause in the conversation, Harding said: “Pretty girl, that girl you were talking to at the bar.”

“Yes; is she not? I think she is one of the prettiest girls I ever saw in my life.”

“Far better looking than Lady Seveley.”

“I should rather think so; Lady Seveley is over thirty.”

“The choice would be a nice test of a young man's moral character.”

“Did you write that this morning, or are you going to write it to-morrow morning?”

“You have not told me which, when you do—”

“I see you are not in a hurry to bring your book out.”

Harding laughed, and Frank was pleased at the idea of getting the better of Harding; Fletcher sat with his eyes glittering and his lips slightly parted. Who would hesitate between a lady of rank and a barmaid? She might be a pretty girl, but what of that? There are hundreds as pretty. He had never been the lover of a lady, and his heart was aflame. Soon after the men parted in the street, and Frank went from them, fearful of his lonely rooms, and longing for his friends at Southwick.

He lunched every day at the Gaiety, and he at length succeeded in persuading Lizzie to come to Reading with him.

Town was miserably Sunday when he drove up to Paddington at a quarter past eight. “If it should rain, if it should turn out a pouring wet day, what should I do? That would be too terrible!” He felt the boat alive beneath his oars, the river placid and gentle, and all the charm of the rushes, the cedars, the locks, and the blonde beautiful girl in the stern with the parasol he had bought her aslant. Let him have this day, and he didn't care what happened! He wanted to show her the river, he wanted to joy for a day in her presence.

He was more than a half an hour in advance. Would she come? She had promised, but she might disappoint. That would be worse than the rain. He would wait till ten o'clock. There was another train at ten, but if they missed the ten to nine the day would be spoilt, lost. Supposing she did not come, what would he do?—drive back through dingy London and eat a lonely breakfast in that horrible brick Pump Court? He could scarcely do that. Would he go to Reading by himself? The light of the flowing stream, the secrets of the rushes and murmuring woods died; nature became voiceless.

“It will be a pity if she doesn't come. We shall have a fine day, I am sure it is going to be a fine day, but we shall miss that train. I wonder if I can see anything of her. I don't know what side she will come from. I suppose she'll take a cab. Perhaps she won't come at all; will she come?—she promised me. By Jove, twenty minutes to nine. If she isn't here in five minutes we shall miss the train.” His passion grew in intensity, and hope was dead, when he heard sounds of running footsteps, and saw the great girl holding her hat with one hand and her dress with the other. The torture of expectation was worth the rapture of relief, and he said, delighted: “So you have come, have you? One minute more and you would have been late.”

“Why, were you going?”

“No, but the train is. We have three minutes. I'll run and get the tickets. How is it that you are so late?”

“I just missed the train.”

“What train?”

“The Metropolitan.”

“The Metropolitan? What nonsense! Why didn't you take a cab?”

She had been afraid of spending the money, fearing she might not see him after all; and out of breath she followed him along the platform. “No, not in there; I don't like travelling alone with gentlemen.” Frank looked at her in amazement, and they got into a carriage where an old gentleman was sitting.

“So you thought I wouldn't come, you naughty boy?”

“Oh, I should have been so disappointed. I don't know what I should have done.”

Lizzie watched the young aristocratic face; his earnestness drew her towards him, and she wondered she did not like him better. “Now tell me what we are going to do. I had such difficulty in getting away. It is against the rules; and the manageress (the fat woman who stands at the end of the bar and goes round and collects the money) hates me. She would have stopped me if she could, but I went to the manager; he is a friend of mine.”

“That fellow with the long fair moustache that walks about at the rate of seven miles an hour, with his frock-coat all unbuttoned. Harding the novelist—the fellow I was sitting with the other night, said such a good thing—he said he was a sort of apotheosis of sherry and bitters. I don't know why it is good, but it is; whether it is the colour of his face and moustache—”

“He is very proud of his moustache, and your friend is quite right; he is very fond of sherry and bitters—too fond. I have served him with as many as three in an afternoon, and I am sure he wouldn't have refused another if he could have found any one to stand it. Oh, look at the country! How pretty it is!—the cows, the corn growing, the birds and all the light clouds; we are going to have a lovely day. Shall we see much of the country at Reading? Tell me, where are you going to take me? Shall we go for a walk in the woods? Are there any woods? I hope there are.”

“The most beautiful woods in England—Pangbourne Woods. We shall arrive in Reading about a quarter to ten. We'll walk down to the river, or drive if you like; it is only a few minutes to walk to the boat-house. My boat is there—such a beauty! We'll row up to the—and that reminds me, I ordered the luncheon basket at the best place in London, you know; it was to have been at my place last night at eight o'clock, and they never sent it. We shall have to lunch at the hotel. Such a beautiful hotel, high up, overlooking the river; I hope you are not disappointed, it really wasn't my fault. We shall have an excellent lunch, I assure you, at the hotel.”

The miles fled away, and in the comfort and speed of the broad gaugeline, an hour and a half seemed to them like a minute.

“What kind of town is Reading?” said Lizzie, springing from the carriage.

“Not much more than a biscuit manufactory. A lot of red brick pill-box looking buildings scattered over a flat piece of ground. We shan't see the town. It is a mile from here. Huntley and Palmer, you know—”

“Oh, yes, we deal with them.”

“Catch hold of this rug while I get the tickets out. Shall we walk or drive?”

“Let's walk.”

They stepped along gaily, and they were soon standing on the wharf, Frank criticising the boats and the rowing, Lizzie all white in the sunlight, a little dumbfounded and astonished. Then he turned into the boat-house, and reappeared soon after, his arms bare, the sun on his neck.

“You got my telegram? My boat is ready?”

“Yes, sir, we got her out this morning.”

“I suppose a lot of people wanted to have her, they all went for her, I'll bet.”

“Yes, sir, a good many gentlemen asked if they could have her.”

It seemed to please Frank that he had caused so many to be disappointed. “Well, get her out, we have no time to lose.”

The man stepped from one fleet of skiffs to another, he caught at several boats with his boat-hook, but Frank's boat could not be found. He shouted to his man who was sculling towards an island opposite: “What has become of Mr. Escott's boat? I took her out myself this morning.”

“I should like to know what is the use of my sending you telegrams if I am delayed in this way?”

“My man will be here in a second, sir.”

“Now, then, do be quick, stir yourself, I don't want to stand about here all day.”

The assistant scratched his head. Finally it transpired that that party down the river—that party just gone away—must have had the boat. He didn't know anything about it, it wasn't his fault. They said they had engaged that boat over-night.

“My boat let out for hire! How dare you do this? I never heard of such a thing; I shall write to the papers.”

“I will give you just as good a boat, sir—”

“As good a boat! You haven't a boat like it. How do I know you don't let my boat out for hire every day?”

“No danger of that, sir; I will give you another boat, one that you will be pleased with.”

“My boat knocked about by some cad! He won't be back till nine o'clock to-night, perhaps. I never heard of such a thing. Which is it?”

“That one with the lady in the stern—the red parasol.”

“He must be caught up, he must. Have you got an outrigger?” Assuring Lizzie that he would be back in less than half an hour, Frank bent to his work.

“If he rows like that he will run down some one,” muttered the boatman. “Confound him and his boat!”

The outrigger shot through the water; the various craft paused, surprised at such furious rowing. Lizzie watched the race, asking the boatman if there was danger.

“Danger? No; but he'd better not say too much to that gent when he does catch him up, or there'll be a row, I expect. He's going round the bend; if he doesn't run into something, he'll catch them,” said the boatman. “Would you like to look through my glass, miss? They'll be coming back presently.”

Angry language was indulged in, but the apologies of the boatmen saved the young men the unpleasantness of blows, and, elated at his success, Frank handed Lizzie into the truant boat and paddled out into the stream. When he had got out of earshot and out of the notice of the boat-house he rested on his oars. “Did you see me overhaul them?”

“No, you passed out of sight round the bend.”

“Yes, by George! I had a good pull for it. There are a lot of red parasols up higher, and I had to look out for my boat. What did they say about my rowing?”

“They said you'd catch them if you didn't run into something.”

“Did they? I was wild; and—would you believe it?—when I did catch them up the fellow began to object; he didn't want to come back, if you please. He said he had hired the boat, that he did not know the boat was mine—no proof. I said, 'I will give you proof,' and so I would have.”

“I was afraid. I began to regret that I had come out with you.”

“What nonsense! Done the fellow good if I had punched his head. Well, it has taken it out of me a bit. I had to put on a bit of a spurt to catch them; they had such a start, and they were going along a pretty fair pace, too. It has made me feel a bit peckish, a pull like that on an empty stomach; it must be close on twelve o'clock. What do you say, are you beginning to feel that it is lunch time?”

“I am not very hungry, and you forgot the luncheon basket. I ought to have reminded you to get some sandwiches at the railway station.”

“Sandwiches! I don't want sandwiches; I want something more substantial than sandwiches. I'll paddle on; we aren't more than a tenminutes' paddle from the 'Roebuck,' a ripping nice hotel, I can tell you.”

“Couldn't we have something to eat without going to an hotel?”

“I don't think so. I want a bottle of fizz, and the fizz there is excellent; one of the best hotels on the river; splendid gardens and tennis grounds, a great room overlooking the river; the best people go there; sometimes one can't get a table.”

“I don't think I am well dressed enough.”

“You look charming, a cotton dress and a parasol is all one wants for the river.”

“You are not ashamed of me, then; you'll take me as I am?”

“Ashamed of you! Steer straight for that post—that's it, bravo!” Frank shipped the oars, and when he felt the girl's arm laid on his as he helped her to land, it seemed to him that all the world was happiness. The spirit of the river, the fields and sky, leaped to his eyes. He assisted her to ascend the steps cut in the hillside. She laughed and laughed again, and stopped to rest. At last they stood on the railway line. It swept round another hill all overshadowed and dark with cedars.

“Here comes a train, let's wait. I must see it go round the curve.”

“You should see the Bath express come along the broad gauge at the rate of sixty miles an hour.”

“This is not an express?”

“No.”

The luggage train came with an interminable rumble and jingle, and Lizzie waited till the last truck passed under the branches. Then they went to an hotel full of daylight and stained wood, with glimpses of barmaids far away, and waiters running about; the rooms glistened with table linen; the waiters carved at a sideboard covered with pies, sirloins, hams, tongues. Only one table was occupied, and the waiters were lavishing all attention upon it. Lady Seveley leaned back smoking a cigarette. Fletcher sat next to her, alternately affecting indifference and fixing her with his eyes. Harding was voluble and observant. There was about them an air of thirty and the dissipations of thirty. And, not in the least ashamed of Lizzie, Frank bowed to Lady Seveley; she returned his bow by a slight nod; and Lizzie, very much embarrassed, nodded to the men; they smiled in return.

“Who is that lady you saluted?”

“Lady Seveley; the lady I told you about, who I went to the theatre with the other night.”

“Fancy a lady like that smoking a cigarette!”

A waiter approached with the bill of fare. “We had better not have anything hot, we shall lose the whole day. What do you say?”

“Cold sirloin of beef is excellent, sir; pigeon pie is also very good—young birds.”

“Shall we try the pigeon pie? Get me the wine list. Take off your hat, Lizzie, do.”

“I am afraid my hair will come down.”

“Never mind, so much the better.”

With some difficulty she extracted her hat from the hairpins, and the bright hair hung loose about her white plump face. Frank drank a glass of champagne; he was proud of her beauty.

“By Jove, how this does pick one up! not half bad tipple, is it?”

They hastened through their lunch, unconsciously avoiding the too critical looks of those at the far corner table; nor did they suspect, as they descended the hill and got into their boat and rowed away, that they were still the subject of conversation.

“She is no doubt a very pretty girl. He seems very fond of her. I hope he won't make a fool of himself.”

“I think he is 'mashed.' We saw him the other night in the bar. He was paying her a great deal of attention—the night we saw you at the theatre.”

Lady Seveley's face slightly altered. Harding noticed the change of expression, and he said: “She is called the belle of the bar. Hers is the kind of prettiness that appeals to a young man, for somehow, I cannot explain, it is a thing you must feel; she epitomises as it were the beauty of the English girl; she is the typical pretty English girl; all that English girls have of charm, she has; and the co-ordination is an irresistible force against some young men; their natures demand the freshness the spontaneity, the innocence of—”

“Of the Gaiety bar! I have never been there, but from what you tell me of it, it is the last place to find innocence and freshness.”

“That may be or not be. We find a rose blooming in very out-of-the-way places; but, as a matter of fact, I made no accusation of virtue; vice does not rob a youth of its spontaneity. You may rouge the cheeks of May and blacken her eyes, but she is May nevertheless. I say that the lover of the young girl cannot love the woman of thirty. Her charms touch him not at all; but there are others who may love only the woman of thirty, and, strange to say, they are only loved by the woman of thirty. The universal Don Juan is a myth, and does not exist out of literature. There is the Don Juan who plays havoc among the women of thirty, there is the Don Juan who plays havoc among young girls, but—”

“And you think our friend Frank Escott belongs to the latter class?”

“No, I don't. He is good-looking; he is to all appearance a young man that any woman would like, but I don't think you'd find this to be so if it were given to you to see into his life. Every man of the world must have noticed that there are times when, speaking generally, every second woman will run after him—ladies of rank, prostitutes, maid-servants—when he may pick and choose his mistresses, and change his mind as often as he pleases; there are other times when he finds himself womanless, when none will look at him, when in fact without an allusion to rings, and sometimes a very direct allusion is required, he will not be able to persuade a chorus girl to come out to supper with him. He thinks he is getting old, he looks in the glass with fear.”

“You mean to say there are men who look in the glass with fear?”

“Of course, after five-and-thirty the glass whispers as awful truths to the man as to the woman—worse, for woman's youth is longer than man's. The contrary is the received opinion, but, like all popular opinions, it is wrong; a woman is frequently loved after forty, a man never. I was saying that a man often thinks he is getting old because the chorus girl took an early opportunity of speaking of rings, because the lady of fashion begged of the old gentleman who had taken up his hat to go to stay a little while longer, because the chamber-maid did not look lusciously round the corner when he passed her in the passage. He looks in the glass and imagines all kinds of monstrous changes in his person. His fears have no foundation in fact—or should I say in the flesh? A year after the duchess makes overtures, the chorus girl threatens to throw up her engagement for him, and the chambermaid pesters him with unnecessary questions concerning baths and towels. These facts tend to show, indeed I think they prove, that love is a magnetism, which sometimes we possess in almost irresistible strength, and which sometimes fades away into powerless and apparent extinction.”

“Then you think that good looks have nothing to do with the faculty of making oneself beloved?” said Fletcher.

“The phenomenon of love has hitherto eluded our most eager investigation; when we have traced each desire to its source, and classified—”

“We women will have ceased to take any interest in the matter. What a humbug you are, Mr. Harding; one never knows when you are serious. But what has all this to do with that poor boy who has gone off with his barmaid?”

“This: he is unquestionably good-looking, but I don't think he possesses at all the magnetism, the power—call it what you will—that I have been speaking of. He will never influence either men or women, he will never make friends; that is to say, he will never make use of his friends. He will, I should think, always remain a little outside of success. It will never quite come to him; he will be one of those muddled, dissatisfied creatures who rail against luck and bad treatment. I cannot see him really successful in anything; yes I can, though, I believe he would make an excellent husband. I have spoken a great deal to him. He has told me a lot about himself, and I can see that he asks and desires nothing but leave to devote himself to a woman, to pander to her caprices. All that violent exterior will wear off, and he will yield to and love to be led by a woman. He writes a little, and he paints. I don't know if he has any talent; but he never will be able to work until he is obliged to work for a woman.”

“Then you think he will marry that barmaid?”

“Most probably. He will struggle against it; but unless chance intervenes—she may die, she may run away with some one to-morrow, for she does not care for him—he will be sucked into the gulf.”

“He is Lord Mount Rorke's heir; he will have twenty thousand a year one of these days.”

“Mount Rorke will never forgive him a bad match. I know Mount Rorke,” said Lady Seveley, “and you do, too, Mr. Fletcher.”

“Yes, a little.”

Unfearing prophecy and oracle launched from the windows of the hotel, the young people rowed, lost to all but each other, amazed at the loveliness of the river. They floated amid the bulrushes. Cries and regret when Frank's oar crushed the desired blossom. Never before were lilies as desirable as those that were gathered that day—that bud, it must be possessed, that blown flower must not be left behind. Lizzie dipped her arm to the elbow, and rejoiced in the soft flowing water. The river rose up into what beautiful views and prospects. The locks, the sensation of the boat sinking among the slimy piles with Frank erect holding her off with the boat-hook, or the slow rising till the banks were overflowed, and the wonderful wooden gates opened, disclosing a placid stream with overhanging boughs and a barge. And the charming discoveries they made in this water world, the moorhen's indolence, and the watchful rat swimming for its hole; each bend was a new picture. How beautifully expressive of the work of the field were the comfortable barns. If life is never very fair, a vision of life may be fair indeed, and once the tears came to the bar girl's eyes, for she, too, suddenly remembered her life of tobacco and whisky; long weary hours of standing, politeness, washing glasses, and listening to filthy jokes. Would there be no change? If she might live her life here! She thought of the morning light, and the home occupations of the morning, and then the languid and lazy afternoons in this boat, amid the enchantment of these river lands.

Frank laid by his oars, and as regardless as a shopboy of observers, he took her hand and begged of her to confide in him. He thought, too, of seeing her daily, hourly, of her presence in his daily life; he saw her amid his painting and poetry, and this pleasant scenery. Then the vision vanished like the shine upon the stream, she withdrew her hands, a shadow had fallen.

They passed a summer-house where three girls were sitting; one sat on the edge of a table and sang the ballad of “Biddy Malone.” There was a house so red, and so full of gables and narrow windows, that Frank said it was a perfect specimen of Elizabethan architecture; and he treated Lizzie to all he could pretend to know on the subject, and he condemned the owner for the glaringly modern garden benches with which the swards were interspersed. The sun was setting, there was lassitude in every passing boat, the girls leaned upon the arms of the young men, and the woods stood up tall and contemplative, as beautiful in the deep blue river as upon the pale sky.

They landed at Pangbourne Woods by the wide grassy path between the reedy river and the spreading beeches. There a man was boiling a kettle. He spoke to them; he instructed them in the life of camping out, and he invited them to tea. Lizzie went into the tent and got out the tea-things. Two men came up, jolly fellows enough; and such little adventures endeared and memorised the day.

They climbed, oh! what a climb it was, Lizzie's ankles and courage giving way alternately; but at last they reached a pathway, and they walked at ease into the green solitudes of the wood. It seemed endless, so soft and so still. He spoke to Lizzie, whom he now called Liz, of her past, of the reasons that had led her to leave home and “go to business.” Her brother, she said, was a painter, a celebrated bird-painter.

“Then we should know each other, I am a painter.” He told her of his ideas and projects, of how he had been to France; he might go there again, unless something happened to keep him in England. He wrote a little too, in the papers, and he might do something to help her brother—a paragraph in Fashion, he could get one in. For fear of wounding her he did not ask if her brother was a decorative painter, employed by a firm, or an artist who exhibited pictures. Her father had married again. She did not like her stepmother, and that had determined her to go into business.

Had she ever been in love? Yes, she supposed she had; but it was all over now. The last words sounded, and died away in a great abyss of soul.

Parts of the path were marked “Dangerous.” The earth had given way, creating fearful chasms, over which trees leaned dangerously or hung out fantastically by a few roots. In the dell below there stood a small green painted table, and the young people leaning on the protecting railing wondered at this mysterious piece of furniture. There was in them and about them an illusive sense of death and the beauty of life. One slight push would hurl them headlong hundreds of feet down to the painted table.

The silver of the river sparkled through silence and the foliage of June, and the songs of the boatmen came and went like voices in a dream.

The days of youth are long, and in tender idleness the hours lingered, their charm unbroken in the rattle of London; and happy with love and tired with the great air of the river and its leafy scenery, Frank fell asleep that night.