"do tell me all about your visit to Hampton. The name of the place
sounds quite romantic to me. Is it on the map?"

"I'm afraid you would search your atlas for it in vain. At best it could
only be a pin-point; like that very tiny German duchy which the American
traveller said he would drive round rather than pay toll to pass
through. It is smaller than the Laysford market-place."

"So small as that! Then it's all the more interesting to me."

"But there's really nothing to tell about it. One day is the same as
another there. Nothing ever happens. It is a veritable Sleepy Hollow."

"But there were interesting folk there. You see, I know my Washington
Irving."

Flo had the shrewdness to judge this to be an effective touch, and it
did not matter that her knowledge of the American author was limited to
the bare fact that he had written something about a place of that name.

"I am glad to find you have read one of my favourites," Henry replied,
and the echo of an absurd "What is Meredith?" rang in his ears. It
prompted him to ask, without apparent reason:

"By-the-by, have you read Meredith? He is one of the least known and
greatest of living writers."

"Oh, yes, isn't he perfectly lovely?" She had a vague recollection of
hearing the name somewhere.

"I am just in the middle of his latest novel, 'Beauchamp's Career.' It
is positively Titanic."

"I am sure it must be interesting, and I should love to read it. But
really you must tell me about this Sleepy Hollow of yours. Who did you
see there?"

"My own folk, of course, and a handful of old friends."

"Anybody in par-tic-u-lar?"

Flo smiled roguishly. She had practised the smile before, and could do
it to perfection.

"N-o; nobody--worth mentioning."

Henry had a suspicion that he was being teased, and he rather liked the
operation.

"Really! I can scarcely believe you. But all the same, I have a fancy to
see this birthplace of our budding editor. I imagine it must be a sweet
little spot."

"Perhaps it is best in imagination. You would find the actual thing
deadly dull."

He felt himself drifting rudderless before a freshening breeze of
talkee-talkee.

"No, no, no; I am sure I wouldn't, though you do not paint it with
purple. Do you know," she went on, resting her pretty head upon her hand
and glancing up sideways at him, "I'm beginning to think that they don't
appreciate you properly in Hampton Bagot. A prophet has no honour in his
own country, the