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it far?’

      ‘No. We’ll walk round when we’ve been up the Monument. You don’t often go about the City, I daresay. Nothing doing, of course, on a Saturday afternoon.’

      Nancy made him moderate his pace, which was too quick for her. Part of the pleasure she found in Crewe’s society came from her sense of being so undeniably his superior; she liked to give him a sharp command, and observe his ready obedience. To his talk she listened with a good-natured, condescending smile, occasionally making a remark which implied a more liberal view, a larger intelligence, than his. Thus, as they stood for a moment to look down at the steamboat wharf, and Crewe made some remark about the value of a cargo just being discharged, she said carelessly:

      ‘I suppose that’s the view you take of everything? You rate everything at market price.’

      ‘Marketable things, of course. But you know me well enough to understand that I’m not always thinking of the shop. Wait till I’ve made money.—Now then, clumsy!’

      A man, leaning over the parapet by Nancy’s side, had pushed against her. Thus addressed he glared at the speaker, but encountered a bellicose look which kept him quiet.

      ‘I shall live in a big way,’ Crewe continued, as they walked on towards Fish Street Hill. ‘Not for the swagger of it; I don’t care about that, but because I’ve a taste for luxury. I shall have a country house, and keep good horses. And I should like to have a little farm of my own, a model farm; make my own butter and cheese, and know that I ate the real thing. I shall buy pictures. Haven’t I told you I like pictures? Oh yes. I shall go round among the artists, and encourage talent that hasn’t made itself known.’

      ‘Can you recognise it?’ asked Nancy.

      ‘Well, I shall learn to. And I shall have my wife’s portrait painted by some first-rate chap, never mind what it costs, and hung in the Academy. That’s a great idea of mine—to see my wife’s portrait in the Academy.’

      His companion laughed.

      ‘Take care, then, that your wife is ornamental.’

      ‘I’ll take precious good care of that!’ Crewe exclaimed merrily. ‘Do you suppose I should dream of marrying a woman who wasn’t good-looking?’

      ‘Don’t shout, please. People can hear you.’

      ‘I beg your pardon.’ His voice sank to humility. ‘That’s a bad habit of mine. But I was going to say—I went to the Academy this year just to look at the portraits of men’s wives. There was nothing particular in that line. Not a woman I should have felt particularly proud of. Tastes differ, of course. Mine has altered a good deal in the last ten years. A man can’t trust himself about women till he’s thirty or near it.’

      ‘Talk of something else,’ Nancy commanded.

      ‘Certainly. There’s the sun coming out. You see, I was afraid it would keep on raining, and you would have an excuse for staying at home.’

      ‘I needed no excuse,’ said Nancy. ‘If I hadn’t wished to come, you may be sure I should have said so.’

      Crewe flashed a look at her.

      ‘Ah, that’s how I like to hear you speak! That does one good. Well, here we are. People used to be fond of going up, they say, just to pitch themselves down. A good deal of needless trouble, it seems to me. Perhaps they gave themselves the off-chance of changing their minds before they got to the top.’

      ‘Or wanted to see if life looked any better from up there,’ suggested Nancy.

      ‘Or hoped somebody would catch them by the coat-tails, and settle a pension on them out of pity.’

      Thus jesting, they began the ascent. Crewe, whose spirits were at high pressure, talked all the way up the winding stairs; on issuing into daylight, he became silent, and they stood side by side, mute before the vision of London’s immensity. Nancy began to move round the platform. The strong west wind lashed her cheeks to a glowing colour; excitement added brilliancy to her eyes. As soon as she had recovered from the first impression, this spectacle of a world’s wonder served only to exhilarate her; she was not awed by what she looked upon. In her conceit of self-importance, she stood there, above the battling millions of men, proof against mystery and dread, untouched by the voices of the past, and in the present seeing only common things, though from an odd point of view. Here her senses seemed to make literal the assumption by which her mind had always been directed: that she—Nancy Lord—was the mid point of the universe. No humility awoke in her; she felt the stirring of envies, avidities, unavowable passions, and let them flourish unrebuked.

      Crewe had his eyes fixed upon her; his lips parted hungrily.

      ‘Now that’s how I should like to see you painted,’ he said all at once. ‘Just like that! I never saw you looking so well. I believe you’re the most beautiful girl to be found anywhere in this London!’

      There was genuine emotion in his voice, and his sweeping gesture suited the mood of vehemence. Nancy, having seen that the two or three other people on the platform were not within hearing, gave an answer of which the frankness surprised even herself.

      ‘Portraits for the Academy cost a great deal, you know.’

      ‘I know. But that’s what I’m working for. There are not many men down yonder,’ he pointed over the City, ‘have a better head for money-making than I have.’

      ‘Well, prove it,’ replied Nancy, and laughed as the wind caught her breath.

      ‘How long will you give me?’

      She made no answer, but walked to the side whence she could look westward. Crewe followed close, his features still set in the hungry look, his eyes never moving from her warm cheek and full lips.

      ‘What it must be,’ she said, ‘to have about twenty thousand a year!’

      The man of business gave a gasp. In the same moment he had to clutch at his hat, lest it should be blown away.

      ‘Twenty thousand a year?’ he echoed. ‘Well, it isn’t impossible. Men get beyond that, and a good deal beyond it. But it’s a large order.’

      ‘Of course it is. But what was it you said? The most beautiful girl in all London? That’s a large order, too, isn’t it? How much is she worth?’

      ‘You’re talking for the joke now,’ said Crewe. ‘I don’t like to hear that kind of thing, either. You never think in that way.’

      ‘My thoughts are my own. I may think as I choose.’

      ‘Yes. But you have thoughts above money.’

      ‘Have I? How kind of you to say so.—I’ve had enough of this wind; we’ll go down.’

      She led the way, and neither of them spoke till they were in the street again. Nancy felt her hair.

      ‘Am I blown to pieces?’ she asked.

      ‘No, no; you’re all right. Now, will you walk through the City?’

      ‘Where’s the place you spoke of?’

      ‘Farringdon Street. That’ll bring you round to Blackfriars Bridge, when you want to go home. But there’s plenty of time yet.’

      So they rambled aimlessly by the great thoroughfares, and by hidden streets of which Nancy had never heard, talking or silent as the mood dictated. Crewe had stories to tell of this and that thriving firm, of others struggling in obscurity or falling from high estate; to him the streets of London were so many chapters of romance, but a romance always of to-day, for he neither knew nor cared about historic associations. Vast sums sounded perpetually on his lips; he glowed with envious delight in telling of speculations that had built up great fortunes. He knew the fabulous rents that were paid for sites that looked insignificant; he repeated anecdotes of calls made from Somerset House upon men of business, who had been too modest in returning the statement of their income; he revived legends of dire financial disaster, and of catastrophe barely averted by strange expedients. To all this Nancy listened with only moderate interest; as often as not,

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