‘Of course I don’t mind. I shall be very pleased to see him.’ ‘I’m afraid you won’t find him amusing. He’s very simple and outspoken. In fact, he is one of those fellows who don’t need to be outspoken. His face always tells you what he is thinking of before he opens his lips.’ At this point a servant came in and intimated that Mr. Blake was tired of his own company, and Hubert and Sophy went into the house together. Some days passed before Blake could procure Alec’s address by means of a letter to the farm; and then he asked his Scotch cousin to dinner. It was a new experience for Alec. Everything at Grove House seemed daintier, more delicate, and more precise than what he had been accustomed to. Never in his life had he seen so much money and trouble lavished upon the petty details of existence; never had he seen the art of comfortable living carried to such perfection. When the little party adjourned to the drawing-room after dinner, this impression was strengthened. The soft low seats, the thick carpet--for Mr. Blake would not tolerate stained boards and Eastern mats--the softly shaded and tinted lights, the delicate china, all helped to produce the effect. The young Scotchman felt too big, too strong and awkward, for these luxurious surroundings. Sophy could scarcely tell what to make of her guest. She liked him; she liked his frank, open face, and his unconventional, unaffected manners; she liked his strong northern speech. But she hardly knew how to talk to him. He had no idea of the art of saying little polite nothings for the sake of keeping conversation going. ‘You have only come south lately?’ she asked, with a smile. ‘Only ten days ago.’ ‘And how do you like London?’ ‘What do you mean by London?’ Sophy was naturally at a loss for an answer, and Alec went on: ‘London means so many things. The houses are very mean-looking.’ ‘But the people?’ asked Sophy, hiding her amusement under a conventional smile. ‘How do you like them?’ ‘They are very smart,’ answered Alec, speaking with great deliberation, ‘and quick in all they do, and selfish, and always in a hurry; and they think that London is all the world.’ ‘You have seen some of the sights, I suppose?’ ‘Yes. I went to the National Gallery to see the pictures. Some of them I couldn’t make anything of. But some of them were simply splendid. And Westminster Abbey! I never saw anything like it!’ ‘You admired the Abbey, then?’ ‘It is--oh! I can’t find words to tell you what I thought of it! It provoked me so, to see the stupid people going about with their faces as calm as if they were going to dinner, or staring at one lump of a monument after another. It seems as if it were alive, and knew how beautiful it is. The columns seem never tired of springing up, and up, and up, as if they would reach to heaven; and yet they are satisfied when they join each other in a perfect arch. Who built it? Who imagined it?’