He had often languidly discussed the comparative advantages of Murren and Zermatt with girls who took a yearly tour abroad as naturally as their dinner, but to talk to one who had spent her whole life in towns, who could enjoy a country evening so absolutely and unaffectedly, was a strange and delightful novelty. “You are one of those who can really enjoy,” he said. “You are not blasee you are one of the happy mortals who keep the faculty of enjoyment as strongly all through life as in childhood.” “Yes, I think I can enjoy,” said Erica. “But I suppose we pay for our extra faculty of enjoyment. “You mean by being more sensitive to pain?” “Yes, though that sounds rather like Dickens's Mrs. Gummidge, when she thought she felt smoky chimneys more than other people.” He laughed. “How I wish you could turn over your work to me, and go to Switzerland tomorrow in my place! Only I should wish to be there, too, for the sake of seeing you enjoy it.” “Do you go tomorrow?” “Yes, with my father.” “Ah! How delightful! I confess I do envy you a little. I do long to see snow mountains. Always living in London makes me--” He interrupted her with a sort of exclamation of horror. “Oh! Don't abuse London!” she said, laughing. “If one must live all the year round in one place, I would rather be there than anywhere. When I hear people abusing it, I always think they don't know how to use their eyes. What can be more lovely, for instance, than the view from Greenwich Park by the observatory? Don't you know that beautiful clump of Scotch firs in the foreground, and then the glimpse of the river through the trees? And then there is that lovely part by Queen Elizabeth's oak. The view in Hyde Park, too, over the Serpentine, how exquisite that is on a summer afternoon, with the Westminster towers standing up in a golden haze. Or Kensington Gardens in the autumn, when the leaves are turning, and there is blue mist in the background against the dark tree trunks. I think I love every inch of London!” Leslie Cunningham would have listened to the praises of the Black Country, if only for the sake of hearing her voice. “Well, as far as England goes, you are in the right place for scenery now; I know a few lovelier parts than this.” “What are those lights on the lower terrace?” asked Erica, suddenly. “Glow worms. Have you never seen them? Come and look at them nearer.” “Oh, I should like to!” she said, with the charming enthusiasm and eagerness which delighted him so much. To guide her down the steps in the dusky garden, to feel her hand on his arm, to hear her fresh, naive remarks, and then to recall what Donovan Farrant had just told him about her strange, sad story, all seemed to draw him on irresistibly. He had had three or four tolerably serious flirtations, but now he knew that he had never before really loved.