George, on a 'bus carrying him towards Regent's Park, was in spirit at
one with the gay freshness that gave this September morning a spring-
like air.

A week of torrid heat, in which London crawled, groaned, and panted,
had been wiped from the memory by an over-night thunderstorm that
burst the pent-up dams of heaven and loosed cool floods upon the
staring streets. No misty drizzle nor gusty shower it had been, but a
strong, straight, continuous downpour, seemingly impelled by
tremendous pressure. Dusty roofs, dusty streets, dusty windows it had
scoured and scrubbed and polished; torrents had poured down the
gutters--whenever temporarily the pressure seemed to relax, the ears
of wakeful Londoners were sung to by the gurgle and rush of frantic
streams driving before them the collected debris of many days.

Upon this morning, in the result, a tempest might have swept the town
and found never a speck of dust to drive before it. The very air had
been washed and sweetened; and London's workers, scurrying to and from
their hives, seemed also to have benefited by some attribute of the
downpour that tinted cheeks, sparkled eyes, and, rejuvenating limbs,
gave to them a new sprightliness of movement.

George, from his 'bus, caught many a bright eye under a jaunty little
hat; gave each back its gleam from the depths of gay lightness that
filled his heart. Nearing the Park he alighted; made two purchases.
From a confectioner bun-corn for David and Angela, those ramping
steeds; from a florist the reddest rose that an exhaustive search of
stock could discover.