balloons floating in their wake. Children solemnly holding paper
windmills to catch the breeze were wheeled along in mail-carts and
perambulators. Surely of all the lovers that went to keep a May-day
tryst, none ever went more sweet and gay than Jenny.

She left the Tube at Charing Cross and, being early, walked along the
Embankment to Westminster Bridge. As she crossed the river, she looked
over the splash and glitter of the stream towards Grosvenor Road and up
at Big Ben, thinking, with a sigh of content, how she and Maurice would
be sitting in the studio by four o'clock. At Waterloo there was half an
hour to wait for the train; but it was not worth while to buy a stupid
paper when she could actually count the minutes that were ticking on
with Maurice behind them. It was 3.25. Her heart began to beat as the
enormous clock hand jerked its way to the time of reunion. Not because
she wanted to know, but because she felt she must do something during
that last five minutes, Jenny asked a porter whether this were the right
platform for the 3.30 from Claybridge.

"Just signaled, miss," he said.

Would Maurice be looking out of the window? Would he be brown with three
weeks of Spanish weather? Would he be waving, or would he be....

The train was curling into the station. How much happier it looked than
the one which curled out of it three weeks ago. Almost before she was
aware of its noise, it had pulled up, blackening the platforms with
passengers that tumbled like chessmen from a box. Maurice was not
immediately apparent, and Jenny in search of him worked her way against
the stream of people to the farther end of the train. She felt an
increasing chill upon her as the contrary movement grew weaker and the
knots of people became more sparse; so that when beyond the farthest
coach she stood desolate under the station roof and looked back upon the
now almost empty line of platform, she was frozen by disappointment.

"Luggage, miss?" a porter asked.

Jenny shook her head and retraced her steps regretfully, watching the
satisfied hansoms drive off one by one. It was impossible that Maurice
could have failed her: she must have made a mistake over the time. She
took the envelope from her bag and read the directions again. Could he
have come on the 23rd after all? No, the post card was plain enough.
The platform was absolutely empty now, and already the train was backing
out of the station.

With an effort she turned from