For a second, as though he were part of the scenery, those violet eyes met his with a casual impersonal glance. Then their owner slowly spread out her own copy of the Mail.
“What’s the news?” asked the statesman, drinking deep from his glass of water.
“Don’t ask me,” the girl answered, without looking up. “I’ve found something more entertaining than news. Do you know—the English papers run humorous columns! Only they aren’t called that. They’re called Personal Notices. And such notices!” She leaned across the table. “Listen to this: ‘Dearest: Tender loving wishes to my dear one. Only to be with you now and always. None “fairer in my eyes.”—
The man looked uncomfortably about him. “Hush!” he pleaded. “It doesn’t sound very nice to me.”
“Nice!” cried the girl. “Oh, but it is—quite nice. And so deliciously open and aboveboard. ‘Your name is music to me. I love you more—‘”
“What do we see to-day?” put in her father hastily.
“We’re going down to the City and have a look at the Temple. Thackeray lived there once—and Oliver Goldsmith—”
“All right—the Temple it is.”
“Then the Tower of London. It’s full of the most romantic associations. Especially the Bloody Tower, where those poor little princes were murdered. Aren’t you thrilled?”
“I am if you say so.”