The day before his departure for Liverpool was a singularly fine one.
The thick air had cleared overnight in a strong wind which brought in a
golden dawn and then fell off to a fresh breeze. When Bartley looked
out of his windows from the Savoy, the river was flashing silver and the
gray stone along the Embankment was bathed in bright, clear sunshine.
London had wakened to life after three weeks of cold and sodden rain.
Bartley breakfasted hurriedly and went over his mail while the hotel
valet packed his trunks. Then he paid his account and walked rapidly
down the Strand past Charing Cross Station. His spirits rose with every
step, and when he reached Trafalgar Square, blazing in the sun, with
its fountains playing and its column reaching up into the bright air,
he signaled to a hansom, and, before he knew what he was about, told the
driver to go to Bedford Square by way of the British Museum.
When he reached Hilda's apartment she met him, fresh as the morning
itself. Her rooms were flooded with sunshine and full of the flowers he
had been sending her. She would never let him give her anything else.
"Are you busy this morning, Hilda?" he asked as he sat down, his hat and
gloves in his hand.
"Very. I've been up and about three hours, working at my part. We open
in February, you know."
"Well, then you've worked enough. And so have I. I've seen all my men,
my packing is done, and I go up to Liverpool this evening. But this
morning we are going to have a holiday.
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