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angles to Piccadilly. His first idea had been to take them to
his father’s house in Winchester Square, a large, dull man-
sion which at this period of the year was shrouded in silence
and brown holland; but he bethought himself that, the cook
being at Gardencourt, there was no one in the house to get
them their meals, and Pratt’s Hotel accordingly became
their resting-place. Ralph, on his side, found quarters in
Winchester Square, having a ‘den’ there of which he was
very fond and being familiar with deeper fears than that
of a cold kitchen. He availed himself largely indeed of the
resources of Pratt’s Hotel, beginning his day with an early
visit to his fellow travellers, who had Mr. Pratt in person, in
a large bulging white waistcoat, to remove their dishcovers.
Ralph turned up, as he said, after breakfast, and the little
party made out a scheme of entertainment for the day. As
London wears in the month of September a face blank but
for its smears of prior service, the young man, who occa-
sionally took an apologetic tone, was obliged to remind his
companion, to Miss Stackpole’s high derision, that there
wasn’t a creature in town.
‘I suppose you mean the aristocracy are absent,’ Hen-
rietta answered; ‘but I don’t think you could have a better
proof that if they were absent altogether they wouldn’t be
missed. It seems to me the place is about as full as it can be.
There’s no one here, of course, but three or four millions of
people. What is it you call them—the lower-middle class?
They’re only the population of London, and that’s of no con-
sequence.’
Ralph declared that for him the aristocracy left no void

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