“Very well, bring him along by all means. I own he is a credit to take out—not like my little monkeys—for he behaves prettily and obeys at a word. The dear old dame will be quite pleased to see him. She will say he is like the children of her youth, and that’s her highest praise. I daren’t take my girls; they would disgrace me in ten minutes.” Lucy would have made the journey in an omnibus, but Florence called a cab. The visit involved going across London to a western district far beyond the solemn gloom of the region where Lucy had visited Dr. Ivery. The cab was not very pleasant, the presence of Hugh as a third having compelled them to take a four-wheeler, while otherwise Florence would have hired a dashing hansom. “Such a fusty smell!” Florence cried. Then, in a few minutes more: “What a noise the windows make!” Next: “And we are crawling like snails. But it’s always the way with a ‘growler.’” Lucy said nothing, but innocent Hugh administered a reproof. “Are four-wheelers called ‘growlers,’ auntie, because they make people grumble?” he asked. “Oh, you are too clever for anything, child!” said the auntie. Hugh looked up astonished. “It isn’t clever to want to know, is it?” he returned. “It’s clever when you do know.” The cab stopped at last; but Florence would not dismiss it. “Let it wait,” she said. “Mrs. Bray’s hot rooms will take so much out of me that I shall just want to drop into it when we come out.” Of course, Lucy had nothing to do but consent. Florence often complained that Lucy held back from mutual expeditions. Little matters of this sort were at the root of Lucy’s reserve. Extravagances always went on which she would never dream of, and though Florence let none of their expense fall upon her, that was not pleasanter for Lucy, since it forced her to accept, as favours, indulgences and luxuries which seemed to her not only unnecessary, but even harmful for two young vigorous women. The exterior of the house they entered differed little from other pretty residences of its fashionable little quarter, nestled down beside the most aristocratic of our London parks. But once within the door, the house had a character all its own. The pretty little entrance hall was cut across by a broad flight of steps leading to an upper hall, whence the public rooms opened. Of the walls of this upper hall scarcely a quarter of a yard of the middle part remained visible, being thickly covered with old and rare engravings and prints, the interstices between pictures of varied size being filled by bits of blue china and other curios. Even the portion approaching the ceiling was decorated, though more sparsely, by ancient weapons and shields. A ladylike maid with a pale, tired face admitted them, and led them straight into Mrs. Bray’s presence.