inks of going to see things at home; but I began to suspect
that I might some day be stabbed with jealous pangs and need to be
stuffed with a lot of facts about England--though until I knew
Americans I've been in the habit of thinking facts the least
interesting things in the world. They seemed like chairs to sit on or
floors to walk on without noticing what you were doing; but I suppose
it might be awkward without chairs and floors.

Soon we were near enough to New York to see the tremendous chimney
things clearly, and they sharpened the impression that I was sailing
straight into a dream. There could be no such things in the real world;
they wouldn't be possible. But the dream felt very interesting and
intense all of a sudden, and I didn't want to wake up from it just
then, in spite of Mrs. Ess Kay.

The tall shapes were bright and vivid now, as giant hollyhocks growing
in irregular rows. Still, they did not look one bit like houses, or
offices where people could work without going stark, staring mad. I got
a queer idea in my head that the houses themselves must be buried deep
underground, like bulbs, with only their towers sticking up.

The next thing that happened in the dream, was slowing majestically
into our own dock, and that was wonderful. The whole place was alive
with faces, mostly pretty girls' faces, under fascinating hats, gay as
flowers in a flower-show; parterre above parterre of brilliant
blossoms; and they had all been grown in honour of us.

There was a wild waving of handkerchiefs on the ship, and a frantic
fluttering of white among the flowers, as if a flock of butterflies had
been frightened up into the air. Still we were a long time getting in,
and I grew quite impatient; but finally Louise, who had attended to my
packing, took charge of my handbag, my sunshade and coat, with her
mistress's and Miss Woodburn's things. The moment had come to bid the
ship good-bye.

"Now," said Mrs. Ess Kay, slipping her arm into mine, "I wonder, dear
child, if you would mind being left alone to deal with the custom-house
people? You'd stand under your own letter 'B,' of course."

"Oh, Katherine, do you think even Letter B, which sounds so like a
warning to young men, a proper chaperon for a Duchess's daughter?"
exclaimed Sally Woodburn.

I laughed, but Mrs. Ess Kay didn't. She evidently considers things
connected with the American Custom House no fit subject for frivolity.
She went on, without answering; "I