He drew her to him in a passionate embrace. And so their lips met and lingered. CHAPTER XXXI AFTER TWELVE MONTHS The shock which electrified London was reminiscent of the shocks to which it was submitted in the early days of the war, when the "Yellow" press ran riot, and journalists dipped deeply into their reservoirs of superlatives to generate the current of sensation which should sell their papers. It was a misty afternoon, with an almost intangible yet saturating drizzle; a setting admirably fitting an evening newspaper thrill. Spirits were at a sufficiently low ebb for something of a screaming nature. Fleet Street did its best; a best at no time to be despised. It came as the homeward rush began from the offices of the great metropolis. It stared out from street corners and the fronting of bookstalls. It looked up from the greasy pavements. It served to hide a portion of the rags which hung about the nether limbs of small street urchins. It came in strident, raucous tones upon the moisture-laden atmosphere. There was no escaping it. That which escaped the eyes thrust itself upon defenceless ear. And its urgent note created the necessary excitement in minds set upon the task of making the homeward journey with the least possible delay. Then, at once, the careless eye was caught and held. "Under Water: The World Defied," cried one contents bill. "The New Submersible Merchantman," announced one of the more sedate journals. "The Great Problem Solved," cryptically suggested a buff-tinted sheet. "From Downing Street to the Deeps," smiled the more flippant pink announcement. And so on through the whole jargon of the press poster. There was no escape from it. The word "submersible" seemed to fill the whole of the wretched winter atmosphere. And, as was intended, it caught the London fancy, and deflected purpose into the channel it desired. London was startled; and when London is startled by its press it is no niggard. Therefore the rain of coppers which set in became perilously near a deluge. The small boys snatched, and the old sinners with grey whiskers and weather-stained faces swept in their harvest. The bookstall attendants dealt out their papers in a steady, accurate stream, and, within an hour, the whole of London's democracy had formulated its definite opinion upon the new adventure, in the dogmatic manner of the British ratepayer.