inary, but Don knew that it would wear off.
At Piccadilly Circus he found the usual congestion of traffic and more
than the usual gala atmosphere for which this spot is peculiar.

People at Piccadilly Circus never appear to be there on business. They
are either _au rendezvous_ or bound for a restaurant or going shopping
or booking theatre seats; and although Don had every reason for
believing that a war was in progress, Piccadilly Circus brazenly refused
to care. The doors of the London Pavilion were opened hospitably and
even at that early hour the tables in Scott's windows were occupied by
lobster fanciers. A newsboy armed with copies of an evening paper (which
oddly enough came out in the morning) was shouting at the top of his
voice that there had been a naval engagement in the Channel, but he did
not succeed in attracting anything like the same attention as that
freely bestowed upon a well known actress who was standing outside the
Criterion and not shouting at all. It was very restful after the worry
at the front. In Derbyshire, too, people had talked about nothing but
the war.

There were attractive posters upon the plinth of Nelson's Monument, and
the Square seemed to be full of Colonial troops. The reputation of
Trafalgar Square ranks next to that of the Strand in the British
Colonies. A party of Grenadier Guards, led by a band and accompanied by
policemen and small boys, marched along the Mall. A phrase of the march
haunted Don all the way to Chelsea.

* * * * *

Yvonne Mario in white decollete blouse and simple blue skirt, made a
very charming picture indeed. Her beauty was that of exquisite colouring
and freshness; her hair seemed to have captured and retained the summer
sunlight, and her eyes were of that violet hue which so rarely survives
childhood. Patrician languor revealed itself in every movement of her
slim figure. Don's smile betrayed his admiration.

"Do you know, Yvonne," he said, "I have been thinking coming along that
there were thousands of pretty girls in London. I see now that I was
wrong."

"You are making me blush!" said Yvonne, which was not true, for her
graceful composure seldom deserted her. "I shall tell Paul that you have
been paying me compliments."

"I wish you would. I don't believe he thinks I appreciate you as highly
as I do."

"He does," replied Yvonne naively; "he regards you as a connoisseur of
good looks!"

"Oh!" cried Don. "Oh! list