en-seats, and sat in quiet happiness,
unheeding of the sharp touch of the afternoon air. More pigeons flew
down from neighbouring roofs and walked tamely around them. And from all
the mighty activity of surrounding London, that beat strenuous,
feverish, far-reaching, there flowed to them only a serenity, an almost
phantasmal calm: they were alone, supremely alone--far from their world
of everyday existence.

The time slipped by deliciously. Their enjoyment was as spontaneous as
of two children at play. And children they were in the perfect
simplicity of their happiness. They watched the afternoon deepen, the
haze of sunshine weaken and yield to greyer moods; they rose, too, and
moved along the edge of the waters, and examined the shipping and
barges. They spoke to the pigeons, gave them names, endowed them with
romances; they spoke to each other endearingly, yet still as the two
children who had played together always, who had wandered into this
strange world, and were as enchanted with it as with each other.

At last they realised the light was already fading; the mist on all
things was ghostlier, and damp in the throat and nostrils. Now and again
a spasmodic wind caught up dry leaves and swirled them around playfully.
Lady Betty gave a little shiver.

"Night will soon be on us," she said. "A million points of light will be
springing up as by magic. It would be enchanting to stay and watch the
darkness deepen and the river-fog steal down; to sit here through the
mysterious hours, and study the shadows and silhouettes, and listen to
all the strange sounds of the night, and watch all those lights glimmer
on and on, till at last they show yellow in the pale dawn, and life
again is swarming over the bridges. Must we go back, dear?--we have left
our world ever so far away--and years ago, was it not, dear?"

A sadness had descended on them both. With the approach of evening, they
could not but feel the precious time was fleeting; they could no longer
immerse themselves with such wholeheartedness in the simple appreciation
of the moment. The terror of the parting to come rose in the hearts of
both. Yet they made a brave resistance.

"Come, darling," she said at last; "the hours still belong to us. We
have indulged our day-mood. Let us search for something fresh now; our
good star shall watch over us and send us happy adventures."

So they passed again into the street, and, absorbed in their talk, were
scarcely aware whi