Never had Miss Alicia been to London. She had remained, as was demanded of her by her duty to dear papa, at Rowcroft, which was in Somersetshire. She had only dreamed of London, and had had fifty-five years of dreaming. She had read of great functions, and seen pictures of some of them in the illustrated papers. She had loyally endeavored to follow at a distance the doings of her Majesty,--she always spoke of Queen Victoria reverentially as “her Majesty,”--she rejoiced when a prince or a princess was born or christened or married, and believed that a “drawing-room” was the most awe-inspiring, brilliant, and important function in the civilized world, scarcely second to Parliament. London--no one but herself or an elderly gentlewoman of her type could have told any one the nature of her thoughts of London. Let, therefore, those of vivid imagination make an effort to depict to themselves the effect produced upon her mind by Tembarom's casually suggesting at breakfast one morning that he thought it might be rather a good “stunt” for them to run up to London. By mere good fortune she escaped dropping the egg she had just taken from the egg-stand. “London!” she said. “Oh!” “Pearson thinks it would be a first-rate idea,” he explained. “I guess he thinks that if he can get me into the swell clothing stores he can fix me up as I ought to be fixed, if I'm not going to disgrace him. I should hate to disgrace Pearson. Then he can see his girl, too, and I want him to see his girl.” “Is--Pearson--engaged?” she asked; but the thought which was repeating itself aloud to her was “London! London!” “He calls it 'keeping company,' or 'walking out,'” Tembarom answered. “She's a nice girl, and he's dead stuck on her. Will you go with me, Miss Alicia?” “Dear Mr. Temple Barholm,” she fluttered, “to visit London would be a privilege I never dreamed it would be my great fortune to enjoy--never.” “Good business!” he ejaculated delightedly. “That's luck for me. It gave me the blues--what I saw of it. But if you are with me, I'll bet it'll be as different as afternoon tea was after I got hold of you. When shall we start? To-morrow?” Her sixteen-year-old blush repeated itself. “I feel so sorry. It seems almost undignified to mention it, but--I fear I should not look smart enough for London. My wardrobe is so very limited. I mustn't,” she added with a sweet effort at humor, “do the new Mr. Temple Barholm discredit by looking unfashionable.” He was more delighted than before. “Say,” he broke out, “I'll tell you what we'll do: we'll go together and buy everything 'suitable' in sight. The pair of us'll come back here as suitable as Burrill and Pearson. We'll paint the town red.”