He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. For the present, he murmured his farewells, and turning, caught Hilary’s eye and walked away, crossing the ballroom to move into the less opulent, and less crowded, saloon next door where servants were dispensing refreshments. We are going to have this chap writing books one of these days. “And aren’t there fees to pay at the Imperial College?” her aunt was saying—a disagreeable question. “It is a pity that as nations we are not more friendly.
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