I faced Conny, and was thus able to alternate luxuriously between the beauties of nature and the beauties of human nature. When we reached Updown, James was requested to drive slowly, in order that I might “view” the town. It turned out that my aunt was a native of the place, and knew a good deal of its history, social and otherwise. The carriage was stopped at the huge gateway at the bottom of the High Street, that I might decipher the inscription, and admire the carvings. Unfortunately the inscription was in Latin, with v’s for u’s. I did not understand it, but as I had always been given to believe that a knowledge of the dead tongues was esteemed a very essential ingredient in the composition of a gentleman’s character, I looked wise, and talked much nonsense about the unintelligibility of mediæval Latin. “They say,” observed my aunt, “that this gate was built by the Romans.” “Oh, that must be a mistake,” I answered, “for don’t you see the date MDCLI?” which was the only part of the inscription I could read. “The writing says that the gateway was restored in that year,” said Conny, quietly. “What! do you understand Latin?” I asked. “No. Mr. Curling told me.” My aunt tossed her head, and exclaimed, “I am sure Mr. Curling can’t read Latin.” “Indeed he can!” returned Conny, looking for an instant with her deep, deep eyes, at her mamma, and then letting them drop with a little smile. “James, drive on!” cried Mrs. Hargrave. Had Mr. Curling’s head been under our wheels, I believe at that moment I should have sat through the jump of the carriage unmoved. Was my aunt’s suspicion right? did Conny care about that lean young man at the bank? Suppose he _could_ read Latin--what then? I daresay he had bragged of this solitary achievement to my cousin, and she had mentioned it first to pique her mother. I looked at her, and then at my aunt, and then pretended to fall into a rapture over an old gable-peaked house with latticed windows, and a porch surmounted by an effigy of Time. The town abounded in venerable structures of this kind; but the builders were busy in the suburbs, and the country outside was dotted with little stucco residences, squares of plaster, coloured like gingerbread--advertised as charming homes for newly-married couples--poor wretches! My relations received several bows during our progress through the streets, and--I say this without vanity--I was a good deal stared at. I know nothing more ludicrous than bucolic curiosity. I was incessantly laughing to see some old man or woman turn slowly to look after us, as if our carriage were a magnet, and their noses were steel, and gaze until we were out of sight. “How do the people amuse themselves all day long?” I asked. Conny had no idea. “Are any balls or dinner-parties ever given?”