George looked down upon her as he guided her through the gate.
"Some people seem to find it pleasant to be together!" he said, with a vibration in his voice. "But why did we look?" he added, discontentedly.
"How could we help it, you silly boy?"
They walked to wards the bridge and down the steps, happy in each other, and freshened by the night breeze. Over the river the moon, hung full and white, and beneath it everything—the silver tracks on the water, the blaze of light at Charing Cross Station, the lamps on Westminster Bridge and in the passing steamers, a train of barges, even the darkness of the Surrey shore—had a gentle and poetic air. The vast city had, as it were, veiled her greatness and her tragedy; she offered herself kindly and protectingly to these two—to their happiness and their youth.
George made his companion wait beside the parapet and look, while he himself drew in the air with a sort of hunger.
"To think of the hours we spend in this climate," he said, "caged up in abominable places like the House of Commons!"
The traveller's distaste for the monotony of town and indoor life spoke in his vehemence. Letty raised her eyebrows.
"I am very glad of my furs, thank you! You seem to forget that it is
February."
"Never mind!—since Monday it has had the feel of April. Did you see my mother to-day?"
"Yes. She caught me just after luncheon, and we talked for an hour."