“I can’t! I can’t! I want to go a-maying.”
Merle looked at her helplessly. “But one doesn’t go a-maying in Regent Street,” she protested; “if you mean garlands and queens. I’ll crown you with hawthorn from Gerrard’s, if you insist, but the expense will be enormous. Or we’ll catch a cart-horse and plait its tail with red, white, and blue. Or I’ll treat you to an ice-cream soda at Fuller’s. You can choose between these rural delights.”
“Where’s Stuart?” Peter demanded suddenly. “I haven’t seen or heard of him for about a week.” One of Stuart’s habits was the treatment of each curt farewell as final, leaving his companions in a pleasant state of uncertainty as to his next summons to fellowship. “Where’s Stuart? P’raps it’s his birthday. ’Tisn’t mine, I know. Merle, what do you say to a grand un-birthday festival? Stuart shall take us into the country to toss cowslip balls. We’ll rout him out from his Aladdin’s Cave. Who wants diamonds in springtime, in springtime——”
“‘The only pretty ring-time,’” Merle added. “So you’re wrong about the diamonds.”
“We’ll go and look at his pretty rings.” Peter hesitated, came to a full-stop opposite one of Liberty’s windows, a tawny riot of gold and amber and copper tints. “Perhaps we’d better not,” she decided; “I hate the sort of female who can’t leave a man alone in business hours. And I hate still more the ponderous business face with which he receives her pretty importunities.”
“But Stuart!” laughed Merle. “You can surely trust Stuart enough to believe there is no City-spell on earth can hold him captive. Besides, he begged us to invade his premises one day and see him play at diamond-merchants. Don’t you remember?”
“In a silk hat; so he did. Come along then.” Peter wavered no longer, but hailed a Holborn ’bus, and followed by Merle, scrambled to the top. She was right about the weather: the warm air was a-stir with lilac promise, and passing faces gave evidence of spring-cleaning within, a more potent and magical spring-cleaning than ever achieved by mop and broom.
“I feel about six and a half,” Merle confessed gaily, as with a delighted sense of exploration they spelt out “Heron and Carr, Diamond-merchants, first floor,” among a bewilderment of brass plates, and mounted lightly the wide stone staircase.
“We want Mr. Stuart Heron, please,” to the office boy who answered their summons; and again, “We want Mr. Stuart Heron,” as a preoccupied clerk came slowly forward.