“I’ll be exceedingly glad when I get some of the newness off,” Jim said. “When one sees people back from the front, a bit stained and worn, it makes one feel cheap to be creaking along, just turned out like a tailor’s block.”
“From all I hear of Aldershot mud, we won’t have long to wait for the stains,” said Wally, comfortably. “And London mud is an excellent breaking in—you wait till a merry motor-’bus passes you at full tilt, and you’ll get all the marking you want! This city for wet grubbiness in January comes up to Melbourne in the same month for dry grubbiness—think of old Melbourne on a hot north wind day, with the dust in good going order!”
“But to-day isn’t bad,” Jim said; “there’s really sunshine, and it’s not so cold. Don’t you think, Dad, we might take the patient out?”
“I’m not a patient any more,” Norah disclaimed. “It was bad enough to be one for three weeks—I’m quite well now. Do let us go out.”
“I’ve ordered some sort of a carriage,” said Mr. Linton—“having foreseen mutiny on the part of the invalid. It should be ready; get your things on, Norah, and make sure there are plenty of them. The sun here isn’t what you would call a really warm specimen of its kind.”
It was a watery sun, but it shone brightly enough on Piccadilly as they drove along the splendid street. On either side great smoke-grimed buildings towered high: but above them the sky was blue, and in Piccadilly Circus there was a brave show of flowers, though the “flower-girls”—who are rather weird old women—shivered under their shawls among their baskets of violets and tulips. One had a basket that made Norah suddenly cry out.
“Why, it’s gum-leaves!”
They stopped the carriage, and Wally jumped out and ran back, returning presently with a little cluster of eucalyptus boughs, with yet unopened capsules among the grey-green foliage.
“She says it came from the South of France,” he said. “But it’s good enough to be Australian!”
To Norah it was quite good enough. She held the fragrant leaves throughout their drive—seeing, beyond the roar and grime of London streets, open plains with clumps of gum-trees—seeing their leaves stir and rustle as the sweet wind blew through.