Heigho! I didn't suppose that anything could be lovelier than that girl's smile, but there is, and it is her voice. I shall call there again to-morrow morning. I don't know on what pretext, but I shall call, for my visit was curtailed this evening by the entrance of the waiter, who asked what they would have for breakfast. Miss Van Tyck said she would be disengaged in a moment, so naturally I departed, with a longing to knock the impudent waiter's head against the uncomprehending wall. Breakfast indeed! A fellow can breakfast regularly, and yet be in a starving condition. _He_ Oxford, _June 14_, The Angel. I have just called. They have gone! Gone hours before they intended! How shall I find her in London? _He_ London, _June 15_, Walsingham House Hotel. As a cathedral town London leaves much to be desired. There are too many hotels, too many people, and the distances are too great. For ten hours I kept a hansom galloping between St. Paul's and Westminster Abbey, with no result. I am now going to Ely, where I shall stay in the cathedral from morning till night, and have my meals brought to me on a tray by the verger. _She_ Ely, _June 15_, At Miss Kettlestring's lodgings. I have lost him! He was not at St. Paul's or Westminster in London--great, cruel, busy, brutal London, that could swallow up any precious thing and make no sign. And he is not here! They say it is a very fine cathedral. Memoranda: _The Octagon is perhaps the most beautiful and original design to be found in the whole range of Gothic architecture. Remember also the retrochoir. The lower tier of windows consists of three long lancets, with groups of Purbeck shafts at the angles; the upper, of five lancets, diminishing from the centre, and set back, as in the clerestory, within an arcade supported by shafts._ (I don't believe even he could make head or tail of this.) _Remember the curious bosses under the brackets of the stone altar in the Alcock Chapel. They represent ammonites projecting from their shells and biting each other._ (If I were an ammonite I know I should bite Aunt Celia. Look up ammonite.) _He_ Ely, _June 18_, The Lamb Hotel. I cannot find her! Am racked with rheumatic pains sitting in this big, empty, solitary, hollow, reverberating, damp, desolate, deserted cathedral hour after hour. On to Peterborough this evening. _She_ Peterborough, _June 18_. He is not here. The cathedral, even the celebrated west front, seems to me somewhat overrated. Catherine of Aragon (or one of those Henry the Eighth wives) is buried here, also Mary Queen of Scots; but I am tired of looking at graves, viciously tired, too, of writing in this trumpery note-book. We move on this afternoon. _He_ Peterborough, _June 19_.