They landed at Westminster Bridge and went to a tearoom for tea. When they came out it was quite dark, and they got on to the top of an omnibus. But the town was now ablaze with gas and electric lights that were flinging out the initials of the Queen, and Whitehall was dense with carriages going to the official receptions. Glory wanted to be in the midst of so much life, so the girls got down and walked arm in arm. As they passed through Piccadilly Circus they were laughing again, for the oppression of the crowds made them happy. The throng was greatest at that point and they had to push their way through. Among others there were many gaily-dressed women, who seemed to be waiting for omnibuses. Glory noticed that two of these women, who were grimacing and lisping, had spoken to a man who was also lounging about. She tugged at Polly's arm. “That's strange! Did you see that?” she said. “That! Oh, that's nothing. It's done every day,” said Polly. “What does it mean?” said Glory. “Why, you don't mean to say--well, this, Glory---- Really your friends ought to take care of you, my dear, you are so ignorant of the world.” And then suddenly, as by a flash of lightning, Glory had her first glimpse of the tragic issues of life. “Oh, my gracious! Come along,” she whispered, and dragged Polly after her. They were panting past the end of St. James's Street when a man with an eye-glass and a great shield of shirt-front collided with them and saluted them. Glory was for forging ahead, but Polly had drawn up. “It's only my friend,” said Polly in another voice.--“This is a new nurse. Her name is Glory.” The man said something about a glorious name and a glorious pleasure to be nursed by such a nurse, and then both the girls laughed. He was glad they had found his tickets useful, but sorry he could not see them back to the hospital, being dragged away to the bally Foreign Office reception in honour of the Queen's birthday. “But I'm coming to the ball, you know, and,” with a glance at Glory, “I've half a mind to bring my chum along with me!” “Oh, do,” said Polly, partly covering the pupils of her eyes with her eyelids. The man lowered his voice and said something about Glory which Glory did not catch, then waved his white-kid glove, saying “Ta-ta,” and was gone. “Is he married?” said Glory. “Married! Good gracious, no; what ridiculous ideas you've got!” It was ten minutes after ten as the girls turned in at a sharp trot at the door of the hospital, still prattling and chattering and bringing some of the gaiety and nonsense of their holiday into the quiet precincts of the house of pain. The porter shook his finger at them with mock severity, and a ward Sister going through the porch in her white silence stopped to say that a patient had been crying out for one of them. “It's me--I know it's me,” said Polly. “I've got a brother here out of a monastery, and he can't do with anybody else about him. It makes me tired of my life.”