“Finding you here in Paris is immense, Miss Noreen. I was planning to keep the way open from Bookstalls to Cheer Street--to ride out with you possibly, watch you paint things, and have talks----” “You’ll stay in London for a time, Routledge-san?” “Yes, until you and Jerry appeal to the _Review_ to start a war to be rid of me.” She did not need to tell him that she was glad. “Come, let’s go outside. It’s like an enchanted castle in here--like living over one of your past lives in all this yellow stillness.” She could not have explained what made her say this. Routledge liked the idea, and put it away to be tried in the crucible of solitude. “Where did you leave father?” she asked when they were in the street. “Away up in Bhurpal--two or three days before we were all called in.” He dreaded the next question, but, understanding that it would trouble him, Noreen pushed into the heart of the subject without asking. “Of course, he wouldn’t tell me, but I’m afraid he isn’t well. I seem to know when ill befalls any one dear to me.” “It was a dull, hard-riding campaign, but he weathered it.” “I feel him white and time-worn somehow, Routledge-san. It is his last time afield. He will need me always now--but we won’t talk of it.” She led the way through the crowded streets--a cold, bright February afternoon, with the air cleanly crisp and much Parisian show and play about them. “I’ll take you to my studio, if you wish.... It is quiet and homey there. Most of my things are packed, but we can have tea.” “I was planning to leave for London to-night,” he ventured. “Of course--we’ll take the same boat. And to-morrow--to-morrow there will be things for a man to do in Cheer Street--getting ready for father.” Both laughed. It seemed almost too joyous to Routledge. “I can’t endure London--that is, I can’t live there when father is away,” she said presently. “It seems less lonely in Paris. London--certain days in London--seem to reek with pent tragedy. There is so much gray sorrow there; so much unuttered pain--so many lives that seem to mean nothing to the gods who give life. I suppose it is so everywhere, but London conceals it less.” “Less than India?” “Oh, but India has her philosophy. There is no philosophy in the curriculum of the East End.... I wish I could think about India as you do--calmly and without hate for the British ascendency there. At least, without showing my hatred. But it seems so scandalous and grotesque to me for a commercial people to dominate a spiritual people. What audacity for the English to suggest to the Hindus the way to conduct life and worship God! I am Jerry Cardinegh’s girl--when it comes to India and Ireland. It must be that which makes me hate London.” “England is young; India old,” said Routledge. “Many times the old can learn from the young--how to live.”