got into the hansom.

"Hampstead Heath, cabby. At Falaise there are millions of these
roses--see, with the outside leaves wrinkled and red. Oh, Brigit,
Brigit, what a day!"

CHAPTER TEN

If it be true that everything is in the eye of the beholder, then
Joyselle's and Brigit Mead's eyes must have been full of beauties that
day.

For to them Hampstead Heath was the most marvellously lovely place on
earth.

His light-heartedness, chiefly due to his faculty for ignoring
side-issues and enjoying the present, was of course magnified as well by
the fact that it followed close on the heels of one of his despairing
black fits. Yesterday he had been, because of an unsatisfactory
morning's work in Chelsea, in the very depths, honestly despising
himself as an artist, sincerely loathing his incorrigible love of
amusement and consequent wasting of time.

So this sunny, rather windy morning, Brigit by his side, and his newly
awakened conscience stilled for the moment, was to him as near Paradise
as anything he could imagine.

They lunched somewhere--neither of them could ever remember where--on
very tough cold ham and insufficiently cooled beer, but they were both
too happy to mind, or even to observe the faults of the _menu_. And as
neither of them had ever before set eyes on the Heath, it was full of
surprises, as well as of beauties. Yielding to some unexplained
instinct, they both took off their hats (what is it that induces people
to uncover their heads in high places?), and the warm sun shone down on
their hair.

"Your hair must be very long, Brigitte?" observed Joyselle once, as he
looked at her silky plaits that covered her crown in disregard of the
laws of fashion.

"It is. Comes to my knees. Oh, look!"

Two people, a man and a girl, sat in the shade of an isolated tree only
a few yards below the place where they stood. They were evidently
enjoying an unlawful holiday, for they were workers--factory hands,
probably, and they were as palpably rejoicing in their freedom.

The girl, whose brilliant red hair was pulled out at the sides until her
head was as big as a bushel basket, wore a pink blouse and a green
skirt. The youth, stunted and pale, was gorgeous only as to tie, but
quite evidently she considered him her complement. For they were busy
drinking beer from a bottle, turn about, and kissing each other
delightedly between swallows. Joyselle started, drawing a deep breath,
and Brigit, without moving