During the fortnight that Alexander wasin London he drove himself hard. He gotthrough a great deal of personal businessand saw a great many men who were doinginteresting things in his own profession.He disliked to think of his visits to Londonas holidays, and when he was there he workedeven harder than he did at home.

The day before his departure for Liverpoolwas a singularly fine one. The thick airhad cleared overnight in a strong wind whichbrought in a golden dawn and then fell off toa fresh breeze. When Bartley looked out ofhis windows from the Savoy, the river wasflashing silver and the gray stone along theEmbankment was bathed in bright, clear sunshine. London had wakened to life after three weeksof cold and sodden rain. Bartley breakfastedhurriedly and went over his mail while thehotel valet packed his trunks. Then hepaid his account and walked rapidly down theStrand past Charing Cross Station. His spiritsrose with every step, and when he reachedTrafalgar Square, blazing in the sun, with itsfountains playing and its column reaching upinto the bright air, he signaled to a hansom,and, before he knew what he was about, toldthe driver to go to Bedford Square by way ofthe British Museum.

When he reached Hilda's apartment shemet him, fresh as the morning itself.Her rooms were flooded with sunshine and fullof the flowers he had been sending her.She would never let him give her anything else.

"Are you busy this morning, Hilda?" he askedas he sat down, his hat and gloves in his hand.

"Very. I've been up and about three hours,working at my part. We open in February, you know."

"Well, then you've worked enough. And sohave I. I've seen all my men, my packing is done,and I go up to Liverpool this evening.But this morning we are going to havea holiday. What do you say to a drive out toKew and Richmond? You may not get anotherday like this all winter. It's like a fineApril day at home. May I use your telephone? I want to order the carriage."

"Oh, how jolly! There, sit down at the desk.And while you are telephoning I'll change my dress. I shan't be long. All the morning papers are on the table."

Hilda was back in a few moments wearing along gray squirrel coat and a broad fur hat.

Bartley rose and inspected her. "Why don'tyou wear some of those pink roses?" he asked.

"But they came only this morning,and they have not even begun to open.I was saving them. I am so unconsciously thrifty!"She laughed as she looked about the room."You've been sending me far too many flowers,Bartley. New ones every day. That's too often;though I do love to open the boxes, and I take good care of them."

"Why won't you let me send you any of those jadeor ivory things you are so fond of? Or pictures?I know a good deal about pictures."

Hilda shook her large hat as she drewthe roses out of the tall glass. "No, there aresome things you can't do. There's the carriage. Will you button my gloves for me?"

Bartley took her wrist and began tobutton the long gray suede glove."How gay your eyes are this morning, Hilda."

"That's because I've been studying.It always stirs me up a little."

He pushed the top of the glove up slowly. "When did you learn to take hold of yourparts like that?"

"When I had nothing else to think of.Come, the carriage is waiting.What a shocking while you take."

"I'm in no hurry. We've plenty of time."

They found all London abroad. Piccadillywas a stream of rapidly moving carriages,from which flashed furs and flowers andbright winter costumes. The metal trappingsof the harnesses shone dazzlingly, and thewheels were revolving disks that threw offrays of light. The parks were full of childrenand nursemaids and joyful dogs that leapedand yelped and scratched up the brown earthwith their paws.

"I'm not going until to-morrow, you know,"Bartley announced suddenly. "I'll cutoff a day in Liverpool. I haven't feltso jolly this long while."

Hilda looked up with a smile which shetried not to make too glad. "I think peoplewere meant to be happy, a little," she said.

They had lunch at Richmond and then walkedto Twickenham, where they had sent the carriage.They drove back, with a glorious sunset behind them,toward the distant gold-washed city.It was one of those rare afternoonswhen all the thickness and shadow of Londonare changed to a kind of shining, pulsing,special atmosphere; when the smoky vapors become fluttering golden clouds, nacreousveils of pink and amber; when all thatbleakness of gray stone and dullness of dirtybrick trembles in aureate light, and all theroofs and spires, and one great dome, arefloated in golden haze. On such rareafternoons the ugliest of cities becomesthe most poetic, and months of sodden daysare offset by a moment of miracle.

"It's like that with us Londoners, too,"Hilda was saying. "Everything is awfullygrim and cheerless, our weather and ourhouses and our ways of amusing ourselves.But we can be happier than anybody.We can go mad with joy, as the people do outin the fields on a fine Whitsunday.We make the most of our moment."

She thrust her little chin out defiantlyover her gray fur collar, and Bartley lookeddown at her and laughed.

"You are a plucky one, you." He patted her glovewith his hand. "Yes, you are a plucky one."

Hilda sighed. "No, I'm not. Not aboutsome things, at any rate. It doesn't take pluckto fight for one's moment, but it takes pluckto go without--a lot. More than I have.I can't help it," she added fiercely.

After miles of outlying streets and littlegloomy houses, they reached London itself,red and roaring and murky, with a thickdampness coming up from the river, thatbetokened fog again to-morrow. The streetswere full of people who had worked indoorsall through the priceless day and had nowcome hungrily out to drink the muddy lees ofit. They stood in long black lines, waitingbefore the pit entrances of the theatres--short-coated boys, and girls in sailor hats,all shivering and chatting gayly. There wasa blurred rhythm in all the dull city noises--in the clatter of the cab horses and the rumblingof the busses, in the street calls, and in theundulating tramp, tramp of the crowd. It waslike the deep vibration of some vast undergroundmachinery, and like the muffled pulsationsof millions of human hearts.

[See "The Barrel Organ by Alfred Noyes. Ed.][I have placed it at the end for your convenience]

"Seems good to get back, doesn't it?"Bartley whispered, as they drove fromBayswater Road into Oxford Street."London always makes me want to live morethan any other city in the world. You rememberour priestess mummy over in the mummy-room,and how we used to long to go and bring her outon nights like this? Three thousand years! Ugh!"

"All the same, I believe she used to feel itwhen we stood there and watched her and wishedher well. I believe she used to remember,"Hilda said thoughtfully.

"I hope so. Now let's go to some awfullyjolly place for dinner before we go home.I could eat all the dinners there are inLondon to-night. Where shall I tell the driver?The Piccadilly Restaurant? The music's good there."

"There are too many people there whomone knows. Why not that little French placein Soho, where we went so often when youwere here in the summer? I love it,and I've never been there with any one but you.Sometimes I go by myself, when I am particularly lonely."

"Very well, the sole's good there.How many street pianos there are about to-night!The fine weather must have thawed them out.We've had five miles of `Il Trovatore' now.They always make me feel jaunty.Are you comfy, and not too tired?"

I'm not tired at all. I was just wonderinghow people can ever die. Why did youremind me of the mummy? Life seems thestrongest and most indestructible thing in theworld. Do you really believe that all thosepeople rushing about down there, going togood dinners and clubs and theatres, will bedead some day, and not care about anything?I don't believe it, and I know I shan't die,ever! You see, I feel too--too powerful!"

The carriage stopped. Bartley sprang outand swung her quickly to the pavement.As he lifted her in his two hands he whispered:"You are--powerful!"