The next morning I arose, glad that we had had such a forceful argument. It was worth while, for it brought us all a little closer together. Barfleur, the children and I ate breakfast together while we were waiting for Scorp to come down and wondering whether we should really go, it was so rainy. Barfleur gave me a book on Oxford, saying that if I was truly interested I should look up beforehand the things that I was to see. Before a pleasant grate fire I studied this volume, but my mind was disturbed by the steadily approaching fact of the trip itself, and I made small progress. Somehow during the morning the plan that Barfleur had of getting us invited to luncheon by his uncle at Oxford disappeared and it turned out that we were to go the whole distance and back in some five or six hours, having only two or three hours for sightseeing. At eleven Sir Scorp came down and then it was agreed that the rain should make no difference. We would go, anyhow. I think I actually thrilled as we stepped into the car, for somehow the exquisite flavor and sentiment of Oxford was reaching me here. I hoped we would go fast so that I should have an opportunity to see much of it. We did speed swiftly past open fields where hay cocks were standing drearily in the drizzling rain, and down dark aisles of bare but vine-hung trees, and through lovely villages where vines and small oddly placed windows and angles and green-grown, sunk roofs made me gasp for joy. I imagined how they would look in April and May with the sun shining, the birds flying, a soft wind blowing. I think I could smell the odor of roses here in the wind and rain. We tore through them, it seemed to me, and I said once to the driver, “Is there no law against speeding in England?” “Yes,” he replied, “there is, but you can’t pay any attention to that if you want to get anywhere.”