The next day we went up to London. We had no special adventure on our journey to town. We went first-class. I remembered my journey down, and how interesting I had thought the third-class passengers, but now we travelled back in state. Vernon said it would be less tiring for Aunt Penelope. When we got to Paddington we drove to the little hotel that Aunt Penelope knew about; it was a quiet little place at one corner of a small square in Bloomsbury. It was very old-fashioned and not much frequented of late. The proprietor, however, knew Aunt Penelope quite well. Had he not entertained her and my mother also in the long-ago days when they were young? Aunt Penelope was anxious to secure the same rooms, and, strange as it may seem, she managed to get them. The landlord was very pleased indeed to show them to her, and she told me afterwards that the sight of them brought a prickly sensation into the back of her eyes, and made her feel inclined to cry. The rooms were quiet and clean, and that was the main thing. Vernon did not think much of them, but they pleased Aunt Penelope, and that, of course, was the most important matter of all. Having arranged about the rooms, Vernon now suggested that we should engage a taxi-cab and drive straight to Hanbury Square, but here Aunt Penelope put down her foot. "What sort of cab did you say, my dear boy?" "A taxi-cab, auntie." He called her "auntie" from the very moment we were properly engaged. "I don't like new sorts of cabs," replied my aunt. "I want what in my young days used to be called a 'growler.' I hate hansoms; I wouldn't dare go in one of them." In vain poor Vernon pleaded for the light and swift motion of the cab which was driven by petrol. The old lady held up her hands with horror. "Not for worlds would I go in a motor-cab," she said. "Vernon, I have admired you and stood up for you, but I shall do so no longer if you even mention such a thing to me again." So in the end we three had to drive to my stepmother's in a four-wheeled cab. Aunt Penelope said that it was quite a handsome conveyance, and not the least like the "growlers" she used to remember in the days when she and her sister were young. We got to the great and beautiful house about noon. We walked up the steps and Vernon rang the bell. "Perhaps they'll be out," I could not help whispering in his ear. "No, I think not," he replied. "I sent a telegram this morning which I imagine will keep them at home. Now, you'll keep up your courage, won't you, darling?" "You needn't be afraid," I replied. He gave my hand a squeeze, and the door was flung open. The automaton who opened it could not help becoming flesh and blood when he saw my face. A queer flicker went over his countenance; he coloured, faintly smiled, then, remembering himself, became a wooden man once again. "Is Lady Helen in?" I ventured to say.