The first of August came, and London was emptying fast. It did not look empty to unaccustomed eyes, but no doubt there was a difference. Certain crossings were more easily passed than in the full height of the season; and Dorothea was conscious of this weighty fact.
She had persuaded Colonel Tracy to take her into the Park one sunny afternoon, and when there, she smiled at the idea of "emptiness."
"Comparative, my dear—all comparative. Everything is comparative in this life," declared the Colonel sententiously. "Besides, Parliament is sitting late. Members can't get away till next week."
"Poor things! I wish we could get away," said Dorothea. "Can't we, father?"
"Eh?—what, my dear?"
"Don't you mean to take me to the seaside or somewhere, as you used to do when I was at school?"
The Colonel was silent for a minute.
"Really, I don't know. Don't see the necessity."
"London is getting so hot and dusty. I should like a glimpse of the waves."
"Not Brighton!"