oo
absurd, but you really believed it! I thought till just now that you
were only pretending, to amuse me."

"Wasn't it true, then?" said Imogen, her tardy wits waking slowly up to
the conclusion.

"True! why, my dear child, New York is the third city of the world in
size,--not quite so large as London, but approaching it. It is a great,
brilliant, gay place, where everything under the sun can be bought and
seen and done. Did you really think we had Indians and buffaloes close
by us?"

"And haven't you?"

"Dear me, no. There never was a buffalo within a thousand miles of us,
and not an Indian has come within shooting distance for half a century,
unless he came by train to take part in a show. You mustn't be so
easily taken in. People will impose upon you no end over in America,
unless you are on your guard. What has your brother been about, not to
explain things better?"

"Well, he _has_ tried," said Imogen, candidly, "but I didn't half
believe what he said, because it was so different from the things in the
books. And then he is so in love with America that it seemed as if he
must be exaggerating. He did say that the cities were just like our
cities, only more so, and that though the West wasn't like England at
all, it was very interesting to live in; but I didn't half listen to
him, it sounded so impossible."

"Live and learn. You'll have a great many surprises when you get across,
but some of them will be pleasant ones, and I think you'll like it.
Good-by," as Imogen rose to go; "I hope we shall meet again some time,
and then you will tell me how you like Colorado, and the Piutes,
and--waffles. I hope to live yet to see you stirring an egg in a glass
with pepper and a 'messy' lump of butter in true Western fashion. It's
awfully good, I've always been told. Do forgive me for hoaxing you. I
never thought you _could_ believe me, and when I found that you did, it
was irresistible to go on."

"I can't make out at all about Americans," said Imogen, plaintively, as
after an effusive farewell from Mrs. Page and a languid bow from Madame
de Conflans they were at last suffered to escape into the street. "There
seem to be so many different kinds. Mrs. Page and her daughter are not a
bit like each other, and Miss Opdyke is quite different from either of
them, and none of the three resembles Mrs. Geoffrey Templestowe in the
least."

"And neither does Buffalo Bill and your phrenological lecturer. Courage,
Moggy. I told