an to make its way slowly towards the very
centre of the volume.

"I see it's genuine," said Miltoun.

"It's not to read, my lord," the little man warned him: "Hardly safe to
turn the pages. As I was saying--I've not had a better piece this year.
I haven't really!"

"Shrewd old dreamer," muttered Miltoun; "the Socialists haven't got
beyond him, even now."

The little man's eyes blinked, as though apologizing for the views of
Thomas More.

"Well," he said, "I suppose he was one of them. I forget if your
lordship's very strong on politics?"

Miltoun smiled.

"I want to see an England, Rimall, something like the England of Mores
dream. But my machinery will be different. I shall begin at the top."

The little man nodded.

"Quite so, quite so," he said; "we shall come to that, I dare say."

"We must, Rimall." And Miltoun turned the page.

The little man's face quivered.

"I don't think," he said, "that book's quite strong enough for you, my
lord, with your taste for reading. Now I've a most curious old volume
here--on Chinese temples. It's rare--but not too old. You can peruse it
thoroughly. It's what I call a book to browse on just suit your palate.
Funny principle they built those things on," he added, opening the
volume at an engraving, "in layers. We don't build like that in
England."

Miltoun looked up sharply; the little man's face wore no signs of
understanding.

"Unfortunately we don't, Rimall," he said; "we ought to, and we shall.
I'll take this book."

Placing his finger on the print of the pagoda, he added: "A good
symbol."

The little bookseller's eye strayed down the temple to the secret price
mark.

"Exactly, my lord," he said; "I thought it'd be your fancy. The price to
you will be twenty-seven and six."

Miltoun, pocketing the bargain, walked out. He made his way into the
Temple, left the book at his Chambers, and passed on down to the bank
of Mother Thames. The Sun was loving her passionately that afternoon; he
had kissed her into warmth and light and colour. And all the buildings
along her banks, as far as the towers at Westminster, seemed to be
smiling. It was a great sight for the eyes of a lover. And another
vision came haunting Miltoun, of a soft-eyed woman with a low voice,
bending amongst her flowers. Nothing would be complete without her; no
work bear fruit; no scheme could have full meaning.

Lord Valleys greeted his son at dinner with good fellowship and a faint
surpris