yed and quivered all
the time the dancing and juggling and love-making went on in front of
it, slowly laughed and reluctantly left off laughing, and applauded
with a helter-skelter generosity which sometimes became unanimous and
overwhelming. Once William saw Katharine leaning forward and clapping
her hands with an abandonment that startled him. Her laugh rang out with
the laughter of the audience.

For a second he was puzzled, as if this laughter disclosed something
that he had never suspected in her. But then Cassandra's face caught his
eye, gazing with astonishment at the buffoon, not laughing, too deeply
intent and surprised to laugh at what she saw, and for some moments he
watched her as if she were a child.

The performance came to an end, the illusion dying out first here and
then there, as some rose to put on their coats, others stood upright to
salute "God Save the King," the musicians folded their music and encased
their instruments, and the lights sank one by one until the house was
empty, silent, and full of great shadows. Looking back over her shoulder
as she followed Ralph through the swing doors, Cassandra marveled to see
how the stage was already entirely without romance. But, she wondered,
did they really cover all the seats in brown holland every night?

The success of this entertainment was such that before they separated
another expedition had been planned for the next day. The next day was
Saturday; therefore both William and Ralph were free to devote the whole
afternoon to an expedition to Greenwich, which Cassandra had never seen,
and Katharine confused with Dulwich. On this occasion Ralph was their
guide. He brought them without accident to Greenwich.

What exigencies of state or fantasies of imagination first gave birth to
the cluster of pleasant places by which London is surrounded is matter
of indifference now that they have adapted themselves so admirably to
the needs of people between the ages of twenty and thirty with Saturday
afternoons to spend. Indeed, if ghosts have any interest in the
affections of those who succeed them they must reap their richest
harvests when the fine weather comes again and the lovers, the
sightseers, and the holiday-makers pour themselves out of trains and
omnibuses into their old pleasure-grounds. It is true that they go, for
the most part, unthanked by name, although upon this occasion William
was ready to give such discriminating praise as the dead architec