George forced a smile. He looked worn and jaded. Miss
Vance noticed that his usually neat cravat was awry and
his hands were gloveless. "Yes," he said. "It is a lit-
tle church. The oldest in London. I want to show it to
you."

Miss Vance tied on Mrs. Waldeaux's bonnet, smoothing her
hair affectionately. "There are too many gray hairs
here for your age, Frances," she said. "George, you
should keep your mother from worry and work. Don't let
her hair grow gray so soon."

George bowed. "I hope I shall do my duty," he said, with
dignity. "Come, mother."

As they drove down Piccadilly Mrs. Waldeaux chattered
eagerly to her son. She could not pour out her teeming
fancies about this new world to any body else, but she
could not talk fast enough to him. Had they not both
been waiting for a lifetime to see this London?

"The thing," she said earnestly, as she settled herself
beside him, "the thing that has impressed me most, I
think, were those great Ninevite gods yesterday. I sat
for hours before them while you were gone. There they
sit, their hands on their knees, and stare out of their
awful silence at the London fog, just as they stared at
the desert before Christ was born. I felt so miserably
young and sham!"