full of promise, let the old fogies say what they pleased. The sea was rougher, perhaps, but the port was nearer . . . and after all, seasickness wasn't often fatal, and was very often beneficial. Not that there weren't alarming symptoms—there were. . . .
Stephen and she could still go to the Temple and see the old, unchanged gray stones, and the vivid grass making a carpet for the delicate feet of spring when she visited London; and she loved to visit London, that beloved guest, as though she delighted in contrasting her fleeting and perennial loveliness with what was gray and immutable. The old, slow river, too, and the towers of Westminster—they could look at them and see little change there.
And after all, they hadn't stood still themselves. They had gone on. If they hadn't, she wouldn't have fitted into the picture to-day, as she knew she did, nor would Stephen have found so much in common with Judy. No, she had long ago said good-by to the hansom bells and the bustles and the bad doctors and the inferior plumbing—let's be honest—and the extremely uncomfortable traveling, and she had said good-by without regret.
She was writing to him the following afternoon,
