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and suddenly Philip heard a clock strike three. He remem-
bered that by this time Mildred was married. He felt a sort
of stitch in his heart, and for a minute or two he could not
hear what Hayward was saying. But he filled his glass with
Chianti. He was unaccustomed to alcohol and it had gone
to his head. For the time at all events he was free from care.
His quick brain had lain idle for so many months that he
was intoxicated now with conversation. He was thankful to
have someone to talk to who would interest himself in the
things that interested him.
‘I say don’t let’s waste this beautiful day in looking for
rooms. I’ll put you up tonight. You can look for rooms to-
morrow or Monday.’
‘All right. What shall we do?’ answered Hayward.
‘Let’s get on a penny steamboat and go down to Green-
wich.’
The idea appealed to Hayward, and they jumped into a
cab which took them to Westminster Bridge. They got on
the steamboat just as she was starting. Presently Philip, a
smile on his lips, spoke.
‘I remember when first I went to Paris, Clutton, I think
it was, gave a long discourse on the subject that beauty is
put into things by painters and poets. They create beauty.
In themselves there is nothing to choose between the Cam-
panile of Giotto and a factory chimney. And then beautiful
things grow rich with the emotion that they have aroused
in succeeding generations. That is why old things are more
beautiful than modern. The Ode on a Grecian Urn is more
lovely now than when it was written, because for a hundred

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