And the thoroughly English scene, so full of human life, and steeped through and through with such a glory of September air and sunshine as even summer had not dared to promise, or even tried to fulfill, gave extraordinary pleasure to the heart, making one feel, with Lucretius, that “he who has grown weary of remaining at home often goes forth, and suddenly returns, inasmuch as he perceived he is nothing better for being abroad.” Down the steep incline in George’s smartest style, past the Crown Hotel, that should surely be at the top of the hill, not the bottom, and so to the Pump-room, where with a clash and a clatter he draws up, scanning the crowd of people, who, having drunk their nauseous doses inside, are dawdling and gossiping in true Harrogate fashion before they disperse. The girl does not take the trouble to look at any of them, not even when George touches his hat, and says, “Here, my lord.” Then there is the sensation as of a person ascending the coach, on _her_ side, she indignantly notes, so that she hastily whispers: “Couldn’t he go on your other side, George?” “Very sorry, miss, but couldn’t drive that way,” and then she draws her skirts close to her with head turned aside, as her unwelcome coach-fellow swings himself into the seat beside her. She is so slight, so small, that after all there is ample room and to spare, especially as he answers to the graceful description of him furnished by the driver. “Do you call this a new drive?” she says to George, as they rattle past the lovely Bogs Valley Gardens, and up the steep ascent to the Spa. “Why----” “_Fenella!_” breathlessly exclaimed a voice beside her. “_Frank._” Two aghast, petrified young faces looked into each other; then the girl, recovering herself first, said: “Pray, how do _you_ come here?” “And what brings you?” he retorted. “Gout. What are you laughing at?” she said airily; “haven’t I got ancestors? Didn’t they drink October ale by the hogshead, and old port by the gallon? And _I’ve_ got to pay the piper, for I never heard of the liquor hurting _them_. But talking of ancestors, I’ve got such a lovely story to tell you. There is a frightfully fat, vulgar woman at our hotel, and you know there are only two things in this sinful world that give me real fits--humbug and vulgarity. Well, this woman never for one single meal lets anybody forget her progenitors, and bawls out at the top of her dreadful voice, ‘_All_ my people are cavalry people!’ And what do you think? Her uncle keeps a pork shop not far from here, so after all she’s perfectly right in her boast, only the cavalry are--Pigs!” Frank laughed. “You are as bad as ever, I see,” he said, and then glanced at the driver, who had averted his head as much as possible.