Westgate’s response was of course less quick and less extravagant, and she gave but a wandering attention to her sister’s ejaculations and rhapsodies. “You know my enjoyment of England’s not so intellectual as Bessie’s,” she said to several of her friends in the course of her visit to this country. “And yet if it’s not intellectual I can’t say it’s in the least sensual. I don’t think I can quite say what it is, my enjoyment of England.” When once it was settled that the two ladies should come abroad and should spend a few weeks in London and perhaps in other parts of the celebrated island on their way to the Continent, they of course exchanged a good many allusions to their English acquaintance. “It will certainly be much nicer having friends there,” was a remark that had one day dropped from Bessie while she sat on the sunny deck of the steamer, at her sister’s feet, from under which spread conveniently a large soft rug. “Whom do you mean by friends?” Mrs. Westgate had then invited the girl to say. “All those English gentlemen you’ve known and entertained. Captain Littledale, for instance. And Lord Lambeth and Mr. Beaumont,” the girl further mentioned. “Do you expect them to give us a very grand reception?” She reflected a moment; she was addicted, as we know, to fine reflexion. “Well—to be nice.” “My poor sweet child!” murmured her sister. “What have I said that’s so silly?” Bessie asked. “You’re a little too simple; just a little. It’s very becoming, but it pleases people at your expense.” “I’m certainly too simple to understand you,” said our young lady. Mrs. Westgate had an ominous pause. “Shall I tell you a story?” “If you’d be so good. That’s what’s frequently done to amuse simple people.” Mrs. Westgate consulted her memory while her companion sat at gaze of the shining sea. “Did you ever hear of the Duke of Green-Erin?” “I think not,” said Bessie. “Well, it’s no matter,” her sister went on. “It’s a proof of my simplicity.”