scenery doesn’t make a vital letter. I must go back to London and get some impressions of real life. I was there but three days before I came away, and that’s hardly time to get in touch.’

As Isabel, on her journey from New York to Gardencourt, had seen even less of the British capital than this, it appeared a happy suggestion of Henrietta’s that the two should go thither on a visit of pleasure. The idea struck Isabel as charming; she was curious of the thick detail of London, which had always loomed large and rich to her. They turned over their schemes together and indulged in visions of romantic hours. They would stay at some picturesque old inn—one of the inns described by Dickens¹—and drive over the town in those delightful handsoms. Henrietta was a literary woman, and the great advantage of being a literary woman was that you could go everywhere and do everything. They would dine at a coffee-house and go afterwards to the play; they would frequent the Abbey and the British Museum and find out where Doctor Johnson had lived, and Goldsmith and Addison.² Isabel grew eager and presently unveiled the bright vision to Ralph, who burst into a fit of laughter which scarce expressed the sympathy she had desired.

‘It’s a delightful plan,’ he said. ‘I advise you to go to the Duke’s Head in Covent Garden, an easy, informal, old-fashioned place, and I’ll have you put down at my club.’

‘Do you mean it’s improper?’ Isabel asked. ‘Dear me, isn’t anything proper here? With Henrietta surely I may go anywhere; she isn’t hampered in that way. She has travelled over the whole American continent and can at least find her way about this minute island.’

‘Ah then,’ said Ralph, ‘let me take advantage of her protection to go up to town as well. I may never have a chance to travel so safely!’