“Bessie really harks back too much to the dead past—she makes too much of it,” Mrs. Westgate opined, catching the sense of this colloquy. “Yes, you hark back,” the young man laughed, thankful for a formula. “You do make too much of the dead past.” He went with the ladies a couple of days later to Hampton Court, Willie Woodley being also of the party. The afternoon was charming, the famous horse-chestnuts blossomed to admiration, and Lord Lambeth, who found in Miss Alden the improving governess, he declared, of his later immaturity, as Mademoiselle Boquet, dragging him by the hand to view all lions, had been that of his earliest, pronounced the old red palace not half so beastly as he had supposed. Bessie herself rose to raptures; she went about murmuring and “raving.” “It’s too lovely; it’s too enchanting; it’s too exactly what it ought to be!” At Hampton Court the tinkling flocks are not provided with an official bellwether, but are left to browse at discretion on the tough herbage of History. It happened in this manner that, in default of another informant, our young woman, who on doubtful questions was able to suggest a great many alternatives, found herself again apply for judicious support to Lord Lambeth. He, however, could but once more declare himself a broken reed and that his education, in such matters, had been sadly neglected. “And I’m sorry it makes you so wretched,” he further professed. “You’re so disappointing, you know,” she returned; but more in pity—pity for herself—than in anger. “Ah, now, don’t say that! That’s the worst thing you could possibly say.” “No”—she spoke with a sad lucidity—“it’s not so bad as to say that I had expected nothing of you.” “I don’t know”—and he seemed to rejoice in a chance to demur. “Give me a notion of the sort of thing you expected.” “Well, that you’d be more what I should like to be—what I should try to be—in your place.” “Ah, my place!” he groaned. “You’re always talking about my place.” The girl gave him a look; he might have thought she coloured; and for a little she made no rejoinder. “Does it strike you that I’m always talking about your place?” “I’m sure you do it a great honour,” he said as if fearing he had sounded uncivil. “I’ve often thought about it,” she went on after a moment. “I’ve often thought of your future as an hereditary legislator. An hereditary legislator ought to know so many things, oughtn’t he?” “Not if he doesn’t legislate.” “But you _will_ legislate one of these days—you may have to at any time; it’s absurd your saying you won’t. You’re very much looked up to here—I’m assured of that.” “I don’t know that I ever noticed it.” “It’s because you’re used to it then. You ought to fill the place.” “How do you mean, fill it?” asked Lord Lambeth. “You ought to be very clever and brilliant—to be ‘up’ in almost everything.”