the sense of vitality and enjoyment. It was a good thing to be young, with a purpose in life and the freedom and strength to carry it out. Clytie tasted a rare happiness that afternoon, one of which the high gods are very sparing. Suddenly she felt a touch on her arm, and a voice exclaimed: “My dear Clytie! What are you wandering about here for?” She turned round. The speaker was Mrs. Farquharson, merry and smiling. They shook hands and walked leisurely down the street together. “When did you get away from that dreadful place, and why haven't you been to see us?” “This is my first day of freedom,” replied Clytie, “and I was just thinking of coming round to Harley Street.” “That's right! You will come round with me when I have finished my shopping. I was wishing for you. I have a little--no, a big treat for you.” “Is it nice to eat? I looked in longingly at Charbonnel's as I passed down Bond Street, and I am hungry.” “It's Thornton--at last,” said Mrs. Farquharson with a little air of triumph. Clytie was interested, and forgot Charbonnel's. “When did he come?” “He has been in England some weeks, but only a few days in London. Do you know, he is going to settle down. Won't that be delightful? I do hope you will like him.” “And he is going to give up fighting and exploring and all that?” asked Clytie. “So he says. But I don't believe it. He will get seized with the fever after a time and then off he will go again. That has always been his way. But at any rate we will have him with us for a season.” “Is he staying with you?” “Oh, dear, no! We wanted him to, but he is too wild a creature. Besides, he knows the half of London, and is in demand everywhere. He is quite a personage.” “Then where does the treat come in?” asked Clytie, laughing. “Why, he comes to Harley Street this afternoon for tea, you obtuse girl,” cried Mrs. Farquharson. “And that is why we had better make haste to get back, as it is growing late.” Clytie had often heard Mrs. Farquharson speak of this cousin, Thornton Hammerdyke, and was half doubtful whether to allow herself to be infected with her enthusiasm or to prepare herself to find him commonplace, as one generally does find the particular heroes of our intimate friends. Caroline was never tired of talking of him. He was a hero, a latter-day berserker. She was proud of him, treasured up paragraphs in the newspapers in which his name was mentioned, wove a woman's web of romance around his brilliant exploits. She had often waxed eloquent over his fame, his personal charm, his physical strength and beauty. “But all this can't be contained in one poor mortal,” Clytie would say sometimes, teasingly. And Mrs. Farquharson would reply, without any of the banter that generally characterised her personal gossip: “Wait until you have seen him, my dear.”