The man locked uncomfortably about him.  “Hush!” he pleaded.  “It doesn’t sound very nice to me.”

“Nice!” cried the girl.  “Oh, but it is—­quite nice.  And so deliciously open and aboveboard.  ’Your name is music to me.  I love you more—­’”

“What do we see to-day?” put in her father hastily.

“We’re going down to the City and have a look at the Temple.  Thackeray lived there once—­and Oliver Goldsmith—­”

“All right—­the Temple it is.”

“Then the Tower of London.  It’s full of the most romantic associations.  Especially the Bloody Tower, where those poor little princes were murdered.  Aren’t you thrilled?”

“I am if you say so.”

“You’re a dear!  I promise not to tell the people back in Texas that you showed any interest in kings and such—­if you will show just a little.  Otherwise I’ll spread the awful news that you took off your hat when King George went by.”

The statesman smiled.  West felt that he, who had no business to, was smiling with him.

The waiter returned, bringing grapefruit, and the strawberries West had ordered.  Without another look toward West, the girl put down her paper and began her breakfasting.  As often as he dared, however, West looked at her.  With patriotic pride he told himself:  “Six months in Europe, and the most beautiful thing I’ve seen comes from back home!”

When he rose reluctantly twenty minutes later his two compatriots were still at table, discussing their plans for the day.  As is usual in such cases, the girl arranged, the man agreed.

With one last glance in her direction, West went out on the parched pavement of Haymarket.

Slowly he walked back to his rooms.  Work was waiting there for him; but instead of getting down to it, he sat on the balcony of his study, gazing out on the courtyard that had been his chief reason for selecting those apartments.  Here, in the heart of the city, was a bit of the countryside transported—­the green, trim, neatly tailored countryside that is the most satisfying thing in England.  There were walls on which the ivy climbed high, narrow paths that ran between blooming beds of flowers, and opposite his windows a seldom-opened, most romantic gate.  As he sat looking down he seemed to see there below him the girl of the Carlton.  Now she sat on the rustic bench; now she bent above the envious flowers; now she stood at the gate that opened out to a hot sudden bit of the city.

And as he watched her there in the garden she would never enter, as he reflected unhappily that probably he would see her no more—­the idea came to him.

At first he put it from him as absurd, impossible.  She was, to apply a fine word much abused, a lady; he supposedly a gentleman.  Their sort did not do such things.  If he yielded to this temptation she would be shocked, angry, and from him would slip that one chance in a thousand he had—­the chance of meeting her somewhere, some day.