the Miss Grammont of his nocturnal
speculations, the beautiful young lady who had to be protected and
managed and loved unselfishly, vanished like some exorcised intruder.
Instead was this real dear young woman, who had been completely
forgotten during the reign of her simulacrum and who now returned
completely remembered, familiar, friendly, intimate. She touched his
hand for a moment, she met his eyes with the shadow of a smile in her
own.

"Oranges!" said Belinda from the table by the window. "Beautiful
oranges."

She had been preparing them, poor Trans-atlantic exile, after the
fashion in which grape fruits are prepared upon liners and in the
civilized world of the west. "He's getting us tea spoons," said Belinda,
as they sat down.

"This is realler England than ever," she said. "I've been up an hour.
I found a little path down to the river bank. It's the greenest morning
world and full of wild flowers. Look at these."

"That's lady's smock," said Sir Richmond. "It's not really a flower;
it's a quotation from Shakespeare."

"And there are cowslips!"

"CUCKOO BUDS OF YELLOW HUE. DO PAINT THE MEADOWS WITH DELIGHT. All the
English flowers come out of Shakespeare. I don't know what we did before
his time."

The waiter arrived with the tea spoons for the oranges.

Belinda, having distributed these, resumed her discourse of enthusiasm
for England. She asked a score of questions about Gloucester and
Chepstow, the Severn and the Romans and the Welsh, and did not wait for
the answers. She did not want answers; she talked to keep things going.
Her talk masked a certain constraint that came upon her companions after
the first morning's greetings were over.

Sir Richmond as he had planned upstairs produced two Michelin maps.
"To-day," he said, "we will run back to Bath--from which it will be easy
for you to train to Falmouth. We will go by Monmouth and then turn back
through the Forest of Dean, where you will get glimpses of primitive
coal mines still worked by two men and a boy with a windlass and a pail.
Perhaps we will go through Cirencester. I don't know. Perhaps it is
better to go straight to Bath. In the very heart of Bath you will
find yourselves in just the same world you visited at Pompeii. Bath is
Pompeii overlaid by Jane Austen's England."

He paused for a moment. "We can wire to your agents from here before we
start and we can pick up their reply at Gloucester or Nailsworth or even
Bath itself. So that