the lawns together, we wandered underneath the young grey dawn. And multitudes of dense white fleecy clouds shepherded by the slow, unwilling wind.…'
And then, into his stuffy room, slipped the singing perfume of a wallflower on a ruined tower, and with it the sweetness of hot ivy. He heard the 'yellow bees in the ivy bloom.' Wind whipped over the open hills—this very wind that laboured drearily through the London fog.
And—he was caught. The darkness melted from the city. The fog whisked off into an azure sky. The roar of traffic turned into booming of the sea. There was a whistling among cordage, and the floor swayed to and fro. He saw a sailor touch his cap and pocket the two-franc piece. The syren hooted—ominous sound that had started him on many a journey of adventure—and the roar of London became mere insignificant clatter of a child's toy carriages.
He loved that syren's call; there was something deep and pitiless in it. It drew the wanderers forth from cities everywhere: 'Leave your known world behind you, and come with me for better or for worse! The anchor is up; it is too late to change. Only—beware! You shall know curious things—and alone!'
Henriot stirred uneasily in his chair. He turned with sudden energy to the shelf of guidebooks, maps and timetables—possessions he most valued in the whole room. He was a happy-go-lucky, adventure-loving soul, careless of common standards, athirst ever for the new and strange.
'That's the best of having a cheap flat,' he laughed, 'and no ties in the world. I can turn the
