He disliked to think of his visits to London
as holidays, and when he was there he worked
even harder than he did at home.
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.
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