and utterly damned Doulton's works. He sternly approved Lambeth Palace,
the Houses of Parliament, Westminster Abbey, Somerset House, Waterloo
Bridge, and St. Paul's. He cursed St. Thomas's Hospital and the hotels.
He patronized New Scotland Yard. The "Isambard Brunel" penetrated more
and more into the heart of the city, fighting for every yard of her
progress. Flags stood out straight in the blue sky traversed by swift
white clouds. Huge rudder-less barges, each with a dwarf in the stern
struggling at a giant's oar, were borne westwards broadside on like
straws upon the surface of a hurrying brook. A launch with an orchestra
on board flew gaily past. Tugs with a serpentine tail of craft threaded
perilously through the increasing traffic. Railway trains, cabs,
coloured omnibuses, cyclists, and footfarers mingled in and complicated
the scene. Then the first ocean-going steamer appeared, belittling all
else. And then the calm, pale beauty of the custom-house at last humbled
George, and for an instant made him think that he could never do
anything worth doing. His pride leapt up, unconquerable. The ocean-going
steamers, as they multiplied on the river, roused in him wild and
painful longings to rush to the ends of the earth and gorge himself on
the immense feast which the great romantic earth had to offer.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed passionately. "I'd give something to go to
Japan."

"Would you?" Marguerite answered with mildness. She had not the least
notion of what he was feeling. Her voice responded to him, but her
imagination did not respond. True, as he had always known, she had no
ambition! The critical quality of his mood developed. The imperious
impulse came to take her to task.

"What's the latest about your father?" he asked, with a touch of
impatient, aggrieved disdain. Both were aware that the words had opened
a crucial interview between them. She moved nervously on the seat. The
benches that ran along the deck-rails met in an acute angle at the stem
of the steamer, so that the pair sat opposite each other with their
knees almost touching. He went on: "I hear he hasn't gone back to the
office yet."

"No," said Marguerite. "But he'll start again on Monday, I think."

"But is he fit to go back? I thought he looked awful."

She flushed slightly--at the indirect reference to the episode in the
basement on the night of the death.

"It will do him good to go back," said Marguerite. "I'm sure he misses
the offic