London was dull, but its dulness, grey and soft, was being mitigated by
a gradual and beautiful blossoming of lights--lights reddish, golden,
and clear white. People hurried along the streets, hansoms jingled and
passed by, buses and vans blocked the view and then, with elephantine
deliberateness, ambled on. Motors of all kinds grunted and jingled, from
the opulent, throaty-voiced ones, that chuckle as if they were fed on
turtle-soup, to the cheap variety, that sound as they pass like an
old-fashioned tinsmith's waggon.

And the combined effect of all these varied sounds was so different from
the sound of Paris, or New York, or Berlin, that an intelligent blind
man would have known where he was, if softly and undisturbingly dropped
from a balloon to a safe street corner.

Brigit Mead had no particular love for the old town, just as she had no
particular love for her little brother's country-house. She was too
bored to care in the least where she was, and only a few people in the
world could soothe her vexed and discontented mind to a sense of calm.
The woman to visit whom she was on her way was one of these, and as she
bought her ticket and made her way to the train a little of her
ill-temper died away. "Good old Pam," she whispered under her veil,
"_she_ will be glad I didn't take Ponty!"

Then there would be the children--six-years-old Pammy, the De Lenskys'
adopted child, and their own little Eliza and Thaddy--the latter a
delicious, roundabout person of eighteen months, the very feel of whom
was comforting.

"An empty carriage, if there is one, please," she asked the guard, and