The two ladies had arranged that on this afternoon Willie Woodley should go with them to Hyde Park, where Bessie expected it would prove a rich passage to have sat on a little green chair under the great trees and beside Rotten Row. The want of a suitable escort had hitherto hampered this adventure; but no escort, now, for such an expedition, could have been more suitable than their devoted young countryman, whose mission in life, it might almost be said, was to find chairs for ladies and who appeared on the stroke of half-past five adorned with every superficial grace that could qualify him for the scene. “I’ve written to Lord Lambeth, my dear,” Mrs. Westgate mentioned on coming into the room where Bessie, drawing on long grey gloves, had given their visitor the impression that she was particularly attuned. Bessie said nothing, but Willie Woodley exclaimed that his lordship was in town; he had seen his name in the _Morning Post_. “Do you read the _Morning Post_?” Mrs. Westgate thereupon asked. “Oh yes; it’s great fun.” Mr. Woodley almost spoke as if the pleasure were attended with physical risk. “I want so to see it,” said Bessie, “there’s so much about it in Thackeray.” “I’ll send it to you every morning!” cried the young man with elation. He found them what Bessie thought excellent places under the great trees and beside the famous avenue the humours of which had been made familiar to the girl’s childhood by the pictures in _Punch_. The day was bright and warm and the crowd of riders and spectators, as well as the great procession of carriages, proportionately dense and many-coloured. The scene bore the stamp of the London social pressure at its highest, and it made our young woman think of more things than she could easily express to her companions. She sat silent, under her parasol, while her imagination, according to its wont, kept pace with the deep strong tide of the exhibition. Old impressions and preconceptions became living things before the show, and she found herself, amid the crowd of images, fitting a history to this person and a theory to that, and making a place for them all in her small private museum of types. But if she said little her sister on one side and Willie Woodley on the other delivered themselves in lively alternation. “Look at that green dress with blue flounces. Quelle toilette!” said Mrs. Westgate. “That’s the Marquis of Blackborough,” the young man was able to contribute—“the one in the queer white coat. I heard him speak the other night in the House of Lords; it was something about ramrods; he called them _wamwods_. He’s an awful swell.” “Did you ever see anything like the way they’re pinned back?” Mrs. Westgate resumed. “They never know where to stop.” “They do nothing but stop,” said Willie Woodley. “It prevents them from walking. Here comes a great celebrity—Lady Beatrice Bellevue. She’s awfully fast; see what little steps she takes.”