And because he was so happy himself, he could sympathize with the happiness of everybody else.  He was glad that the rich people were so rich and the poor people so contented; he admired a young swell for buying flowers from a woman with a shawl over her head; he mused on all the honest, well-paid toil that had gone to the raising of the grapes and peaches at a Piccadilly fruiterer’s.  “Live, and let live”—­that’s a good motto all the world over.  When he saw babies in perambulators, he would have liked to kiss them.  When he saw an elderly man with a pretty young woman, he wanted to nudge him and say jocosely, “You’re in luck, old chap, aren’t you?” When couples of boy and girl lovers went whispering by, he smiled sentimentally.  “That’s right.  You can’t begin too soon.  Never mind what Ma says.  If you like him, stick to him, lassie.”

And though still alone, he felt no loneliness.  His own dear companion was soon coming to him.  Throughout the walk the only thoughts tinged with solemnity were those which sprang from his always deepening gratitude to Mr. Barradine.  He wanted to pay a ceremonious call for the purpose of expressing his thanks, and he felt that he should do this immediately; but for the life of him he could not remember whether the great man’s London house was situated in Grosvenor Square or Grosvenor Place.  Mavis of course would know.  Or he could find out from one of these policemen.  He hesitated, and it was the state of his collar that decided him.  He would postpone the visit of gratitude, and do it first thing to-morrow morning in a clean collar.

The hall clock at his lodgings announced the hour as close on five, and he mentally noted that the timepiece was inaccurate—­three and a half minutes behind Greenwich.  As usual, the hall was untenanted, with no servant to answer questions.  He searched the dark recesses of a dirty letter-rack, on the chance that he might find a telegram from his wife waiting for him.  Then he went gaily up the interminable staircase, making nothing now of its five flights, enjoying their steepness as productive of agreeable exercise.

“Hulloa!” he muttered.  “What’s this?”

A woman’s hat and parasol were lying on a chair, and there was a valise on the floor by the chest of drawers.  Turning, he gave a cry of delight.  Mavis was stretched on the bed, fast asleep.

She woke at the sound of his voice, scrambled down, and flung herself into his arms.

“Will, oh, Will.  My dearest Will!

“My darling—­my little sweetheart.  But how have you come to me—­have you flown?”

“Don’t be silly.”

He was devouring her face with his kisses, straining her to his breast in a paroxysm of pleasure, almost suffocating himself and her in the ardor of the embrace, and jerking out his words as though they were gasps for breath.

“When did you get my wire?  Why, it’s impossible.  I on’y wired two-forty-three.  Is it witchcraft or just a dream?”