A red-nosed flower-girl thrust a great bunch of yellow roses
up at him with certainty of sale written all over her. "Roses? Of
course. How much?"
He laughed aloud as he gave her some money and then got into the hansom.
"Hampstead Heath, cabby. At Falaise there are millions of these
roses--see, with the outside leaves wrinkled and red. Oh, Brigit,
Brigit, what a day!"
CHAPTER TEN
If it be true that everything is in the eye of the beholder, then
Joyselle's and Brigit Mead's eyes must have been full of beauties that
day.
For to them Hampstead Heath was the most marvellously lovely place on
earth.
His light-heartedness, chiefly due to his faculty for ignoring
side-issues and enjoying the present, was of course magnified as well by
the fact that it followed close on the heels of one of his despairing
black fits. Yesterday he had been, because of an unsatisfactory
morning's work in Chelsea, in the very depths, honestly despising
himself as an artist, sincerely loathing his incorrigible love of
amusement and consequent wasting of time.
So this sunny, rather windy morning, Brigit by his side, and his newly
awakened conscience stilled for the moment, was to him as near Paradise
as anything he could imagine.
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