y's years, while not so many, had been heavy of weight upon
his slender shoulders and had bowed them before their time.

After Oxford came London--a fortnight of it, and a very different
experience. Living at a luxurious hotel with Allison Pembroke, who had
come up with them, to show her all the ways of which she felt herself
ignorant; with Craig coming and going from hospital and lecture room,
suggesting each day new wonders; with hours spent daily in the dear
delight of exploration in all sorts of out-of-the-way, famous places;
Georgiana felt as if it were all too miraculous to be true.

That she, "Georgie Warne," as the village people had called her all her
life, should, for instance, be walking with charming Mrs. Pembroke along
Piccadilly in the May sunshine--real London sunshine and no watery
imitation such as she had heard of--dressed in the most modish of spring
costumes, violets in her belt purchased on a street corner from a young
girl with the eyes of a Mrs. Patrick Campbell and the accent of
Battersea Park--well, it simply did not seem real!

Much less did the hours seem real when she went with her husband to take
tea on the Terrace at the Houses of Parliament, or with all three of her
party to dine with some friendly Londoner who appeared eager to offer
hospitality to the whole party. Best of all, perhaps, were the late
evening walks upon which Craig took her alone, to stroll along the
Victoria Embankment, a place of which she never tired, to watch the
myriad lights upon the black river, and to talk endlessly of all the
pair could see before them of purpose and achievement.

"Do you know what you remind me of these days?" Craig asked one night,
when the two had returned to the hotel after one of these long, slow
walks, during which they had been unusually silent.

He threw himself into a deep armchair as he spoke and sat looking up at
his wife, who stood at the open balcony window, gazing down at the
street below, with the interest in everything human which seemed never
to abate.

She turned, smiling. She was particularly lovely to look at to-night,
wearing a little pale-gray, silk-and-chiffon frock (lately purchased at
a French shop in London), which, in spite of its Parisian lines and
graces, was distinctly reminiscent of a certain other gray-silk frock
worn on a never-to-be-forgotten occasion.

"Of a child at her first party?" she asked. "That's what I feel like.
Only there's no end to the cakes an