“Oh yes, there’s a great deal going on. There are not so many balls, but there are a good many other pleasant things,” Bessie Alden explained. “You’ll see for yourself; we live rather in the midst of it.” “It will be very kind of you to let us see. But I thought you Americans were always dancing.” “I suppose we dance a good deal, though I’ve never seen much of it. We don’t do it much, at any rate in summer. And I’m sure,” she said, “that we haven’t as many balls as you in England.” He wondered—these so many prompt assumptions about his own country made him gape a little. “Ah, in England it all depends, you know.” “You’ll not think much of our gaieties,” she said—though she seemed to settle it for him with a quaver of interrogation. The interrogation sounded earnest indeed and the decision arch; the mixture, at any rate, was charming. “Those things with us are much less splendid than in England.” “I fancy you don’t really mean that,” her companion laughed. “I assure you I really mean everything I say,” she returned. “Certainly from what I’ve read about English society it is very different.” “Ah well, you know,” said Lord Lambeth, who appeared to cling to this general theory, “those things are often described by fellows who know nothing about them. You mustn’t mind what you read.” “Ah, what a blasphemous speech—I _must_ mind what I read!” our young woman protested. “When I read Thackeray and George Eliot how can I help minding?” “Oh well, Thackeray and George Eliot”—and her friend pleasantly bethought himself. “I’m afraid I haven’t read much of them.” “Don’t you suppose they knew about society?” asked Bessie Alden. “Oh I daresay they knew; they must have got up their subject. Good writers do, don’t they? But those fashionable novels are mostly awful rot, you know.” His companion rested on him a moment her dark blue eyes; after which she looked down into the chasm where the water was tumbling about. “Do you mean Catherine Grace Gore, for instance?” she then more aspiringly asked. But at this he broke down—he coloured, laughed, gave up. “I’m afraid I haven’t read that either. I’m afraid you’ll think I’m not very intellectual.” “Reading Mrs. Gore is no proof of intellect. But I like reading everything about English life—even poor books. I’m so curious about it,” said Bessie Alden. “Aren’t ladies curious about everything?” he asked with continued hilarity. “I don’t think so. I don’t think we’re enough so—that we care about many things. So it’s all the more of a compliment,” she added, “that I should want to know so much about England.” The logic here seemed a little close; but Lord Lambeth, advised of a compliment, found his natural modesty close at hand. “I’m sure you know a great deal more than I do.” “I really think I know a great deal—for a person who has never been there.” “Have you really never been there?” cried he. “Fancy!” “Never—except in imagination. And I _have_ been to Paris,” she admitted.