ilver paper, past a tall, gloomy church haunted by
beggars, hurrying faster and faster until she swung into the sunlight
of Shaftesbury Avenue. There was Maurice studying very earnestly the
photographs outside the Palace Theater.

"Here I am, Claude," she laughed over his shoulder.

"Oh, I am glad you've come," he said.

"Irene couldn't come. She's ill. Shame, isn't it?"

"Really," said Maurice, trying to seem concerned. "Let's go and have
tea."

"Oh, you unnatural man. Aren't you sorry she's ill?"

"I can't be sorry you're alone. Where shall we have tea?"

"Where _you_ like."

"I know a funny little shop off Soho Square where there aren't many
people."

"Don't you like people, then?"

"Not always."

Soho Square held the heart of autumn that afternoon. London had
surrendered this quiet corner to pastoral meditation. Here, among the
noise of many sparrows and sibilance of dead leaves on the unfrequented
pavement, one realized in the perishable hour's flight the immortality
of experience.

"More birds," said Jenny.

"Don't they make a row and don't the leaves look ripping in this light?"

"There's another one getting excited over the day."

"Well, it is superb," said Maurice. "Only I wish there weren't such a
smell of pickles. I say, would you mind going on ahead and then turning
back and meeting me?"

"Oo-er, whatever for?"

"I want to see how jolly you'd look coming round the corner under the
trees."

"You are funny."

"I suppose you think I'm absurd. But really, you know, you do look like
a Dresden shepherdess with your heart-shaped face and slanting eyes."

"Thanks for those few nuts."

"No, really, do go on, won't you?"

"I certainly sha'n't. People would think we was mad."

"What do people matter?"

"Hark at him. Now he's crushed the world."

"One has to be fanciful on such an afternoon."

"You're right."

"I suppose I couldn't kiss you here?"

"Oh, of course. Wouldn't you like to sit down on the curb and put your
arm round my waist?"

"As a matter of fact, I should."

"Well, I shouldn't. See? Where's this unnatural tea-shop?"

"Just here."

"It looks like the Exhibition."

It was a dim coffee-shop hung with rugs and gongs. The smoke of many
cigarettes and joss-sticks had steeped the gloom with Arabian airs.

"It is in a way a caravanserai," said Maurice.

"A what?" said Jenny.

"A caravanserai--a Turkish pub, if you like it better."

"You and I _are_ seeing life t