was a church
called St. Mary Redcliffe. Mrs. Norton, though tired, pined to go when
she heard it was famous; and it's as much as your life is worth to deny
her a church if she wants one. The others, except Dick, said it was
worth stopping for; also that they were glad they did; so somebody was
pleased! And Sir L. and E. jabbered enough history in Bristol to last a
schoolmaster a week. I was quite thankful to start again, and stop the
flow of intelligence, because I hadn't found time to fag up Bristol and
Clifton beforehand, as I do some towns.

So we came to Bath, where we've been stopping for two days at one of the
best hotels in England, and where I might enjoy a little well-earned
civilization if it weren't that there are a thousand and one old houses
and other "features" which Mademoiselle Ellaline pretends she yearns to
visit. Of course, _I_ know that all she wants is a chance to monopolize
Sir L.'s society, but _he_ doesn't know that; and my business is not
only to fight unjust monopoly, but to establish a Senter-Pendragon Trust
myself. Consequently there is no rest for the wicked, and willy-nilly,
I, too, gloat over relics of the past.

Luckily for me, as I have had to do more sight-seeing here than almost
anywhere else, Bath is a fascinating place, and I believe it's becoming
very fashionable again. Anyhow, all the great ones of earth seem to have
lived here at one time or another. I wonder if it mightn't be nice for
you to spend a season, taking the waters, or bathing, or whatever is the
smartest thing to do? I've noticed it's only the very smartest thing
that ever thoroughly agrees with you, and I sympathize. I have the sort
of feeling that what is good for duchesses may be good for me; but if I
bring off what I'm aiming at now, Lady Pendragon shall rise on the
ladder of her husband's fame and her own charm to the plane of
royalties.

By the way, in nosing about among the foundations of a church here, St.
Peter's--they found the wife (her body, I mean) of that King Edmund
Thingummy I never could find out about. He seems always to be cropping
up!

I was in hopes we'd only have to go back to the Roman days of Bath, as
that saves trouble; but, oh no, down I must dip into Saxon lore, or I'm
not in it with the industrious Miss Lethbridge! I think the wretched
Saxons had a mint here, or something, and there were religious pageants
of great splendour in which that everlasting St. Dunstan mixed himself
up. I tel