should acknowledge Charles as the genius of which he so constantly
remarked it stood in need.

In the morning she was up betimes, and stood at the window looking out
over the sprawl of the south side of the river to the dome of Bedlam
and the tower of Southwark Cathedral, the clustered chimneys, and the
gray litter of untidy, huddled roofs.

'That is not London,' said Charles from the bed, as she cried
ecstatically. 'London is a very small circle, the centre of which is
to the cultivated the National Gallery, and to the vulgar Piccadilly
Circus.... Piccadilly Circus we can ignore. What we have to do is to
stand on the dome of the National Gallery and sing our gospel. Then if
we can make the cultured hear us, we shall have the vulgar gaping and
opening their pockets.'

'I don't want you to be applauded by people who can't appreciate you,'
said Clara.

'No?' grumbled Charles. 'Well, I'm going to have bath and breakfast
and then I shall astonish you.'

'You always do that,' cried Clara. 'Darling Charles!'

She rang the bell, and sat on the bed, and in a few minutes they were
enjoying their continental breakfast of coffee, rolls, and honey.

'I sometimes feel,' said Charles, 'that I have merely taken the place
of your grandfather.... You are the only creature I have ever met who
is younger than myself. That is why you can do as you like with me....
But you can't make me grow a beard.'

'I wish you would.'

'And then I should be like your grandfather?'

'No. You would be more like you.'

'You adorable child,' he said. 'You would reform me out of existence
if you had your way.'

Charles got up, had his bath, shaved, and went out, leaving Clara to
unpack and make out a list of clothes that he required before she could
consider him fit to go out into that London whose centre is the
National Gallery.

As he did not return for lunch, she set out alone to explore the region
which he designed to conquer. She wandered in a dream of delight,
first of all through the galleries and then through the streets, as far
as Westminster on the one side, and as Oxford Street on the other, and
fixed in her mind the location of every one of the theatres. She was
especially interested in the women, and was both hurt and pleased by
the dislike and suspicion with which they regarded her originality....
Every now and then she saw a face which made her want to go up to its
owner and say: 'I'm Clara Day; I've just come to