"Flendly little London, dirty little London," her niece rejoined, as she bounced up and down on Jan's knee. She had slept during the very good crossing and was full of conversation and ready to be pleased with all she saw.
Tony was very quiet. He had suffered far more in the swift journey across France than during the whole of the voyage, and it was difficult to decide whether he or Ayah were the more extraordinary colour. Greenish-white and miserable he sat beside his aunt, silent and observing.
"Here's dear old Piccadilly," Jan exclaimed, as the taxi turned out of St. James's Street. "Doesn't it look jolly in the sunshine?"
Tony turned even greener than before, and gasped:
"This! Piccadilly!"
This not very wide street with shops and great houses towering above them, the endless streams of traffic in the road and on the crowded pavements!
"Did Mrs. Bond live in one of those houses?" he wondered, "and if so, where did she keep her
ducks? And where, oh, where, were the tulips and the lilies of his dream?"
He uttered no sound, but his mind kept exclaiming, "This! Piccadilly?"
"See," said Jan, oblivious of Tony and intent on keeping her lively niece upon her knee. "There's the Green Park."