m
gone), Mr. Dick made himself quite pleasant. He wasn't impertinent, or
too admiring, or anything which a well-brought-up young Englishman ought
not to be. Indeed, I thought by his manner that he wanted tacitly to
apologize for his bad behaviour when we first met; so probably, when I
fancied he looked wicked that night at Ennis's Rooms, it _was_ because
he wanted to sneeze. You have taught me to give everybody, except young
men, the benefit of the doubt; but I don't see why one shouldn't give it
to young men, too. I think they're rather easier to forgive, somehow,
than women. Is that why they're dangerous? But D. B. could never be
dangerous to me, in the sense of falling in love.

His aunt certainly wishes to throw us together; I suppose on account of
Ellaline's money. She doesn't like girls, I'm sure, but would always be
ready, on principle, to give first aid to heiresses. It is something to
be thankful for that she hasn't grafted herself on to our party, as I
feared she might; and though they're both going to stop at some country
house near Southsea, and they "hope we may meet," I dare say I shan't be
bothered by them again while I'm in England. I don't intend to worry.
_La donna e automobile!_

I haven't properly described our start, or told you about the things
I've seen _en route_, and I promised to tell you everything; so I'll go
back to the beginning of the trip.

There was Apollo, throbbing with joy of life in front of the hotel door,
at nine o'clock of a perfect English morning. There were statuesque,
Ritzy footmen, gazing admiringly at the big golden-yellow car (that was
one of the reasons I thought she should be named after the Sun God, she
is so golden). There was Charu Chunder Bose, alias Young Nick, who would
think it a sin against all his gods to dress as a chauffeur, and who
continues to garb himself as a self-respecting Bengali--Young Nick, with
his sleepy eyes, and his Buddha-when-young smile, about as appropriate
on a motor-car as a baby crocodile. There was Sir Lionel waiting to tuck
us in. There were we two females in neat gray motor dust-cloaks, on
which the Dragon insisted; Mrs. Norton in a toque, which she wore as if
it were a remote and dreaded contingency; your Audrie in a duck of an
early Victorian bonnet, in which she liked herself better than in
anything else she ever had on before. There, too, was our luggage, made
to fit the car, and looking like the very last word of up-to-dateness--if