earth had never been there before, but that
Fate and Nature, of which their love was part, were leading them on in a
great festal train to the inevitable consummation. The flame of life had
never burned clearer or more steadily in Mildred, and every day she felt
a growing confidence in having won so complete a possession of her whole
bodily machinery that it would hardly be in the power of Milly to
dethrone her. The sight of George Goring, the touch of his hand, the
very touch of his garment, gave her a feeling of unconquerable life. It
was impossible that she and George should part. All her sanguine and
daring nature cried out to her that were she once his, Milly should not,
could not, return. Tims, too, was there in reserve. Not that Tims would
feel anything but horror at Mildred's conduct in leaving Ian and Tony;
but the thing done, she would recognize the impossibility of allowing
Milly to return to such a situation.

Ian, whose holidays were usually at the inevitable periods, was by some
extraordinary collapse of that bloated thing, the Academic conscience,
going away for a fortnight in June. He had been deputed to attend a
centenary celebration at some German University, and a conference of
savants to be held immediately after it, presented irresistible
attractions.

One Sunday Tims and Mr. Fitzalan went to Hampton Court with the usual
crowd of German, Italian, and French hair-dressers, waiters, cooks, and
restaurant-keepers, besides native cockneys of all classes except the
upper.

The noble old Palace welcomed this mass of very common humanity with
such a pageant of beauty as never greeted the eyes of its royal
builders. Centuries of sunshine seem to have melted into the rich reds
and grays and cream-color of its walls, under which runs a quarter of a
mile of flower-border, a glowing mass of color, yet as full of delicate
and varied detail as the border of an illuminated missal. Everywhere
this modern wealth and splendor of flowers is arranged, as jewels in a
setting, within the architectural plan of the old garden. There the dark
yews retain their intended proportion, the silver fountain rises where
it was meant to rise, although it sprinkles new, unthought-of lilies.
Behind it, on either side the stately vista of water, and beside it, in
the straight alley, the trees in the freshness and fulness of their
leafage, stand tall and green, less trim and solid it may be, but
essentially as they were meant to stan