But her eyes were very bright indeed and her face distinct with suppressed excitement as they drove from Euston Station into the life of the streets. All the while she kept looking out of the cab window, as though amid the passing myriads she might happen already to recognize one of those acquaintances she hoped to meet. At last she was in London! And London in early spring; London with the smuts washed off by torrential showers and then flooded with glorious sunshine; London with the young leaves like a thin veil of green on the limes and elms, and the tassels hanging from the poplars, and the sycamores and horse chestnuts already casting grateful shade; London with the mowing machines whirling in the parks and the watering-carts swishing down the streets--is a fairy city for a young girl with a large hotel to live in, a generous father, and a lover somewhere hidden in those mysterious miles of crowds and houses. Jean half wished she could feel a little less impatient, so that she might relish every passing moment to its dregs. Her father, Frank, and she dined sumptuously and went to the most entertaining play afterwards--a stimulating medley of waltz refrains and gorgeous clothes and a funny man and fifty pretty girls. She did not pose as a dramatic critic, and thought it splendid. Then they had supper at the Savoy, and--so to bed. But though she had gone to her room, Jean lingered for long before her open window, looking wistfully over the humming, lamp-lit town. _His_ name had not been mentioned. CHAPTER XI Lucas painted, but not so fiercely as before; and again from the deck-chair Hillary watched him. He rented the studio next door, and having a comfortable private income of L80 a year, generally spent his afternoons encouraging his friend. Occasionally, however, he considered it advisable to supply chastening reflections. "I don't like it," he observed. "Don't like what?" "If he really meant to buy those pictures, I can't help thinking you would have heard from him again." The artist turned abruptly. "It was only three days ago. I don't expect to hear yet." "Dear old Lucas, I don't want to discourage you, but I call it fishy. Supposing he has met some one since who really knew something about pictures?" His friend resumed work in silence. "There is also another possibility," continued Hillary in his gentle voice. "He struck me as suspiciously extravagant--supposing he has gone bankrupt? I noticed, too, that his complexion was somewhat rubicund--supposing he has had an apoplectic fit? In that case, would his executors be bound by his verbal promise? Honestly, Lucas, I don't think so." There came a sharp rap on the door. "It will relax the strain on your intellect if you go and see who that is," suggested the painter. "A telegram," said Hillary, strolling back from the door. "Good heavens!" cried Lucas. "Read that." Hillary read--