“Where should you have seen us—where should we have gone?” Mrs. Westgate fairly put to him. It found Willie Woodley at least ready. “You should have gone to Hurlingham.” “No, let Lord Lambeth tell us,” Mrs. Westgate insisted. “There are plenty of places to go to,” he said—“each one stupider than the other. I mean people’s houses. They send you cards.” “No one has sent us a scrap of a card,” Bessie laughed. Mrs. Westgate attenuated. “We’re very quiet. We’re here as travellers.” “We’ve been to Madame Tussaud’s,” Bessie further mentioned. “Oh I say!” cried Lord Lambeth. “We thought we should find your image there,” said Mrs. Westgate—“yours and Mr. Beaumont’s.” “In the Chamber of Horrors?” laughed the young man. “It did duty very well for a party,” said Mrs. Westgate. “All the women were _décolletées_, and many of the figures looked as if they could almost speak.” “Upon my word,” his lordship returned, “you see people at London parties who look a long way from that!” “Do you think Mr. Woodley could find us Mr. Beaumont?” asked the elder of the ladies. He stared and looked about. “I daresay he could. Percy sometimes comes here. Don’t you think you could find him, Woodley? Make a dive or a dash for it.” “Thank you; I’ve had enough of violent movement,” said Willie Woodley. “I’ll wait till Mr. Beaumont comes to the surface.” “I’ll bring him to see you,” said Lord Lambeth. “Where are you staying?” “You’ll find the address in my letter—Jones’s Hotel.” “Oh, one of those places just out of Piccadilly? Beastly hole, isn’t it?” Lord Lambeth inquired. “I believe it’s the best hotel in London,” said Mrs. Westgate. “But they give you awful rubbish to eat, don’t they?” his lordship went on. Mrs. Westgate practised the same serenity. “Awful.” “I always feel so sorry for people who come up to town and go to live in those dens,” continued the young man. “They eat nothing but filth.” “Oh I say!” cried Willie Woodley. “Well, and how do you like London, Miss Alden?” Lord Lambeth asked, unperturbed by this ejaculation. The girl was prompt. “I think it grand.” “My sister likes it, in spite of the ‘filth’!” Mrs. Westgate recorded. “I hope then you’re going to stop a long time.” “As long as I can,” Bessie replied. “And where’s wonderful Mr. Westgate?” asked Lord Lambeth of this gentleman’s wife. “He’s where he always is—in that tiresome New York.” “He must have staying power,” said the young man. She appeared to consider. “Well, he stays ahead of every one else.”