Fifty amusement-mongers in London were asking themselves why they had not thought of building a City of Pleasure--and they were not getting satisfactory replies to the conundrum! One evening, towards the middle of September, after a more than usually effective concert, Carpentaria laid down his baton on the plush cushion provided for its repose, and bowed and bowed and bowed again, in response to the enthusiastic plaudits, but with a somewhat pre-occupied mien. “What’s up with the old man?” a French-horn player whispered to his mate. “Dashed if I know!” replied the second French-horn-player. “Unless he’s in love.” “Well, he is,” said the first. “Everybody knows that.” They called him the old man, no doubt, because his age was barely forty and because he looked younger than any of them. Carpentaria descended from his throne, smiling absently at the applause of his band as he made his way through them to the steps leading down from the bandstand to the level of the gardens. He had only to move a few paces in order to be lost in the surging crowd. But before he could do this, he heard a voice: “Mr. Carpentaria.” He turned sharply. It was a woman’s voice. It was more--it was Pauline’s voice. Had she come to meet him? Impossible! That would have been too much happiness. However, he determined to ascertain, and he ascertained in his usual direct manner. “Did you come specially to meet me?” he demanded. And she replied, in a low voice: “Yes.” “That was extremely kind of you,” he said, trembling with joy. “No,” she protested. “I had something to tell you--and------” She hesitated, and then stopped. “Suppose we take a little stroll,” he suggested. And she said, quite naturally: “I should love to.” “This woman is simply the divinest creature,” he told himself. “She is not like other women. She would like to go for a stroll with me, and she does not pretend the contrary. I am a great man, but I have done nothing, absolutely nothing, to deserve her goodness.” They crossed the gardens, with difficulty, in the direction of the terrace. And around were the light and laughter of the City--the brilliant illuminated cafés and the sombre trees for a background, and thousands of pretty toilettes and thousands of men gazing at the pretty toilettes, so attractive in the gloom under the starry sky. A burst of minor music would come now and then from some little café-orchestra, or the sound of the popping of guns from a distant shooting-gallery or the roar of a lion, forced unwillingly to go through its performance in the menagerie. Then, every woman in the gardens gave a little start or a little shriek at the noise of the great cannon which signalled the commencement of the fireworks, and the rush to the terrace, where the best view was to be obtained, became a stampede. “Do you mean to go on to the terrace?” asked Pauline.