into their lives and their lives into dreams. Invalids in chairs
leaned back upon their pillows and smiled. Something in the laughter
of the children or the spirit of the wind had recalled their own
careless moments of full-lived youth.

Paris, despite your Bois de Boulogne; New York, for all the beauties of
your Central Park and Riverside Drive--what have you to compare with
London's parks on a sun-strewn morning in November?

Reaching the tan-bark surface of Rotten Row, Selwyn and the English
girl eased the reins and let the horses into a canter. With the motion
of the strong-limbed chestnut the American felt a wave of exultation,
and chuckled from no better cause than sheer enjoyment in the morning's
mood of emancipation. He glanced at Elise Durwent, and saw that her
eyes were sparkling like diamonds, and that the self-conscious bay was
shaking his head and cantering so lightly that he seemed to be borne on
the wings of the wind. Selwyn wished that he were a sculptor that he
might make her image in bronze: he would call it 'Recalcitrant Autumn.'
He even felt that he could burst into poetry. He wished----

But then he was in the glorious twenties; and, after all, what has the
gorged millionaire, rolling along in his beflowered, bewarmed,
becushioned limousine, that can give one-tenth the pleasure of the grip
on the withers of a spirited horse?

Sometimes they walked their beasts, and chatted on such subjects as
young people choose when spirits are high and care is on a vacation.
They were experiencing that keenest of pleasures--joy in the _present_.

They watched London Society equestrianising for the admiration of the