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"I am glad you think that," she replied. When he comes he will do that raid of the pantechnicons the justice it deserves; he will picture the orderly evening scene about the Imperial Legislature in convincing detail, the coming and going of cabs and motor-cabs and broughams through the chill, damp evening into New Palace Yard, the reinforced but untroubled and unsuspecting police about the entries of those great buildings whose square and panelled Victorian Gothic streams up from the glare of the lamps into the murkiness of the night; Big Ben shining overhead, an unassailable beacon, and the incidental traffic of Westminster, cabs, carts, and glowing omnibuses going to and from the bridge. It was—in connection with this man Hill. The house became joyous again with the talk of babies and wedding festivities. She gave up as he finished, spending himself in her mouth. While he was stirring his tea, she ran and fetched the comb. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. .
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