Miss Carew remorselessly carried out her intention of going to London, where she took a house in Regent’s Park, to the disappointment of Alice, who had hoped to live in Mayfair, or at least in South Kensington. But Lydia set great store by the high northerly ground and open air of the park; and Alice found almost perfect happiness in driving through London in a fine carriage and fine clothes. She liked that better than concerts of classical music, which she did not particularly relish, or even than the opera, to which they went often. The theatres pleased her more, though the amusements there were tamer than she had expected. Society was delightful to her because it was real London society. She acquired a mania for dancing; went out every night, and seemed to herself far more distinguished and attractive than she had ever been in Wiltstoken, where she had nevertheless held a sufficiently favorable opinion of her own manners and person. Lydia did not share all these dissipations. She easily procured invitations and chaperones for Alice, who wondered why so intelligent a woman would take the trouble to sit out a stupid concert, and then go home, just as the real pleasure of the evening was beginning. One Saturday morning, at breakfast, Lydia said, “Your late hours begin to interfere with the freshness of your complexion, Alice. I am getting a little fatigued, myself, with literary work. I will go to the Crystal Palace to-day, and wander about the gardens for a while; there is to be a concert in the afternoon for the benefit of Madame Szczymplica, whose playing you do not admire. Will you come with me?” “Of course,” said Alice, resolutely dutiful. “Of choice; not of course,” said Lydia. “Are you engaged for to-morrow evening?” “Sunday? Oh, no. Besides, I consider all my engagements subject to your convenience.” There was a pause, long enough for this assurance to fall perfectly flat. Alice bit her lip. Then Lydia said, “Do you know Mrs. Hoskyn?” “Mrs. Hoskyn who gives Sunday evenings? Shall we go there?” said Alice, eagerly. “People often ask me whether I have been at one of them. But I don’t know her--though I have seen her. Is she nice?” “She is a young woman who has read a great deal of art criticism, and been deeply impressed by it. She has made her house famous by bringing there all the clever people she meets, and making them so comfortable that they take care to come again. But she has not, fortunately for her, allowed her craze for art to get the better of her common-sense. She married a prosperous man of business, who probably never read anything but a newspaper since he left school; and there is probably not a happier pair in England.” “I presume she had sense enough to know that she could not afford to choose,” said Alice, complacently. “She is very ugly.”