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a vague feeling of contempt for the other thirteen who were engrossed in their morning papers.

"Just imagine missing that glorious effect," she thought to herself, as they rumbled along the edge of the Green Park where the mist was slowly yielding to the warmth of the sun and allowing itself to be coaxed out of growing into a fog. And almost simultaneously she became as material as the rest, in her annoyance with her neighbour for taking more than his share of the seat.

"Nice morning!" he said at that moment, and folded up his Telegraph.

"Yes," said Jean, in a tone that was not encouraging. That the morning was "nice" would never have occurred to her; and it seemed unfair to sacrifice the effect over the Green Park, even for conversational purposes. Then she caught sight of his face, which was a harmless one, and in an ordinary way good-looking, and she accused herself of priggishness, and stared at the unconscious passenger in front, preparatory to cultivating the one at her side.

"We deserve some compensation for yesterday," she continued, more graciously.

"Yesterday? Oh, it was beastly wet, wasn't it? I suppose you don't like wet weather, eh?" said the man, with a suspicion of familiarity in his tone. Jean frowned a little.

"That comes of the simple russet gown," she thought; "of course he thinks I am a little shop-girl." But the sun was shining, and life had been very dull lately, and she would be getting down at Piccadilly Circus. Besides, he was little more than a boy, and she liked boys, and there would be no harm in having five minutes' conversation with this one.

"I suppose no one does. I wasn't trying to be particularly original," she replied carelessly.

He