“No, they’re awfully mornes, aren’t they? But I’m very happy indeed and I promised Mr. St. George to remain in this spot till he comes back. He’s going to take me away. They send him invitations for things of this sort—more than he wants. It was so kind of him to think of me.” “They also send me invitations of this kind—more than _I_ want. And if thinking of _you_ will do it—!” Paul went on. “Oh I delight in them—everything that’s life—everything that’s London!” “They don’t have private views in Asia, I suppose,” he laughed. “But what a pity that for this year, even in this gorged city, they’re pretty well over.” “Well, next year will do, for I hope you believe we’re going to be friends always. Here he comes!” Miss Fancourt continued before Paul had time to respond. He made out St. George in the gaps of the crowd, and this perhaps led to his hurrying a little to say: “I hope that doesn’t mean I’m to wait till next year to see you.” “No, no—aren’t we to meet at dinner on the twenty-fifth?” she panted with an eagerness as happy as his own. “That’s almost next year. Is there no means of seeing you before?” She stared with all her brightness. “Do you mean you’d _come_?” “Like a shot, if you’ll be so good as to ask me!” “On Sunday then—this next Sunday?” “What have I done that you should doubt it?” the young man asked with delight. Miss Fancourt turned instantly to St. George, who had now joined them, and announced triumphantly: “He’s coming on Sunday—this next Sunday!” “Ah my day—my day too!” said the famous novelist, laughing, to their companion. “Yes, but not yours only. You shall meet in Manchester Square; you shall talk—you shall be wonderful!” “We don’t meet often enough,” St. George allowed, shaking hands with his disciple. “Too many things—ah too many things! But we must make it up in the country in September. You won’t forget you’ve promised me that?” “Why he’s coming on the twenty-fifth—you’ll see him then,” said the girl. “On the twenty-fifth?” St. George asked vaguely. “We dine with you; I hope you haven’t forgotten. He’s dining out that day,” she added gaily to Paul. “Oh bless me, yes—that’s charming! And you’re coming? My wife didn’t tell me,” St. George said to him. “Too many things—too many things!” he repeated. “Too many people—too many people!” Paul exclaimed, giving ground before the penetration of an elbow. “You oughtn’t to say that. They all read you.” “Me? I should like to see them! Only two or three at most,” the young man returned. “Did you ever hear anything like that? He knows, haughtily, how good he is!” St. George declared, laughing to Miss Fancourt. “They read _me_, but that doesn’t make me like them any better. Come away from them, come away!” And he led the way out of the exhibition. “He’s going to take me to the Park,” Miss Fancourt observed to Overt with elation as they passed along the corridor that led to the street.