'Anywhere you like, Howel,' said Netta, 'I am no more ready than if I was just starting.'
'Pic what, Howel, was you calling this?' asked Jenkins.
'Piccadilly, mother. One of the best parts of London.'
'Deet, and I should think so. 'Tis like a 'lumination lights. There's no night here. Daylight all the year round. Trees again, like Glanyravon Park, and lights along by. There pretty—what a many carriages! Was they all going to the play? Soldiers, too, I am thinking! And more o' them gentlemen's servants in blue and white. Do all the servants in London be wearing the same livery, Howel?'
'Those are the police, mother,' said Howel, laughing.
'The pleece! Well, I do be calling them handsome men. When will the noise stop, Howel? I can't hear myself speak, much less you and Netta. 'Tis more noise than Hollantide fair! But maybe 'tis fairday here to-day, only I wasn't seeing no cattle. There for you! that man 'll upset us, seure he will.'
'Here we are, mother,' interrupted Howel, as the cab stopped in Half Moon Street. 'Now, you must remember that the landlady is not to be in all our secrets.'
'Seure, and this isn't half as grand as Pic—what's that long name, Howel?'
'Will you walk upstairs, ma'am,' said a well-dressed woman who stood in the passage of the house at which they stopped.
'Thank you, ma'am,' said Mrs Jenkins, making her very best curtsey to the landlady.