"I have just got to hurry off," he explained; "a little matter of business. Eve has nothing to do for an hour or so—"
"I'll look after her if I may," I interposed eagerly.
"Don't be later than half past five, Eve," her father directed as he went off, "and don't be tired."
We followed him a few minutes later into the street. A threatening shower had passed away. The sky overhead was wonderfully soft and blue; the air was filled with sunlight, fragrant with the perfume of barrows of lilac drawn up in the gutter. Eve walked by my side, her head a little thrown back, her eyes for a moment half closed.
"But London is delicious on days like this!" she exclaimed. "What are you going to do with me, Mr. Walmsley?"
"Take you down to the Archbishop of Canterbury and marry you!" I threatened.
She shook her head.
"I couldn't be married on a Friday! Let us go and see some pictures instead."
We went into the National Gallery and wandered round for an hour. She knew a great deal more about the pictures than I did, and more than once made me sit down by her side to look at one of her favorite masterpieces.
"I want to go to Bond Street now," she said when we left, "I think it will be quite all right at this time in the afternoon, and there are some weird things to be seen there. Do you mind?"