"What's the news?" asked the statesman, drinking deep from his glass of
water.
"Don't ask me," the girl answered, without looking up. "I've found
something more entertaining than news. Do you know--the English papers
run humorous columns! Only they aren't called that. They're called
Personal Notices. And such notices!" She leaned across the table.
"Listen to this: 'Dearest: Tender loving wishes to my dear one. Only to
be with you now and always. None "fairer in my eyes."-The man locked uncomfortably about him. "Hush!" he pleaded. "It doesn't
sound very nice to me."
"Nice!" cried the girl. "Oh, but it is--quite nice. And so deliciously
open and aboveboard. 'Your name is music to me. I love you more--'"
"What do we see to-day?" put in her father hastily.
"We're going down to the City and have a look at the Temple. Thackeray
lived there once--and Oliver Goldsmith--"
"All right--the Temple it is."
"Then the Tower of London. It's full of the most romantic associations.
Especially the Bloody Tower, where those poor little princes were
murdered. Aren't you thrilled?"
"I am if you say so."
"You're a dear! I promise not to tell the people back in Texas that you
showed any interest in kings and such--if you will show just a little.
Otherwise I'll spread the awful news that you took off your hat when
King George went by."
The statesman smiled. West felt that he, who had no business to, was
smiling with him.
The waiter returned, bringing grapefruit, and the strawberries West had
ordered. Without another look toward West, the girl put down her paper
and began her breakfasting. As often as he dared, however, West looked
at her. With patriotic pride he told himself: "Six months in Europe, and
the most beautiful thing I've seen comes from back home!"
When he rose reluctantly twenty minutes later his two compatriots were
still at table, discussing their plans for the day. As is usual in such
cases, the girl arranged, the man agreed.
With one last glance in her direction, West went out on the parched
pavement of Haymarket.
Slowly he walked back to his rooms. Work was waiting there for him;
but instead of getting down to it, he sat on the balcony of his study,
gazing out on the courtyard that had been his chief reason for selecting
those apartments. Here, in the heart of the city, was a bit of the
countryside transported--the green, trim, neatly tailored countryside
that is the most satisfying thing in England. There were walls on which
the ivy climbed high, narrow paths that ran between blooming beds of
flowers, and opposite his windows a seldom-opened, most romantic gate.
As he sat looking down he seemed to see there below him the girl of the
Carlton. Now she sat on the rustic bench; now she bent above the envious
flowers; now she stood at the gate that opened out to a hot sudden bit
of the city.