If I could choose, I'd prefer the Pump Room, and would rather talk of Beau Nash and the old Assembly Rooms than of Minerva and her temple—or indeed of Pepys, or Miss Austen and Fanny Burney. By the way, "Evelina" was hers. I've found that out, without committing myself. I wish I could buy the book for sixpence. I think I'll try, when nobody is looking; and it ought to be easy, for we simply haunt a bookshop in Gay Street, belonging to a Mr. Meehan, who is a celebrity here. He has written a book in which Sir Lionel is much interested, called "Famous Houses of Bath," and as it seems he knows more about the place as it was in old days and as it is now than any other living person, he has been going round with us, showing us those "features" I mentioned. He appears to have architecture of all kinds at his finger tips, and not only points out here and there what "Wood the elder and Wood the younger" did, under patronage of Ralph Allen, but knows which architect's work was good, which bad, which indifferent; and that really is beyond me! I suppose one can't have a soul for Paris fashions and English architecture too? I prefer to be a judge of the former, thanks! It's of much more use in life.
I should think there can hardly be a street, court, or even alley of Old Bath into which we haven't been led by our clever cicerone, to see a "bit" which oughtn't on any account to be missed. Here, the remains of the Roman wall, crowded in among mere, middle-aged things; there the place where Queen Elizabeth stayed, or Queen Anne; where "Catherine Morland" lodged, or "General Tilney"; where "Miss Elliot" and "Captain Wentworth" met; where John Hales was born, and Terry, the actor; where Sir Sidney Smith and De Quincey went to school; the house whence Elizabeth Linley eloped with Sheridan; the place where the "King of Bath," poor old Nash, died poor and neglected; and so on, ad infinitum, all the way to Prior Park, where Pope stayed with Ralph Allen, rancorously reviling the town and its sulphur-laden air. So now you can imagine that my "walking and standing" muscles are becoming abnormally developed, to the detriment of the sitting-down ones, which I fear may be atrophied or something before we return to motor life.
Sir Lionel has remarked that Bath is a "microcosm of England," and I hastened to say "Yes, it is." Do you happen to know what a microcosm means? Dick says it's a conglomeration of microbes, but he is always wrong about abstract things unconnected with Sherlock Holmes.
By this time you will be as tired of Bath as if you had pottered about in it as much as I have, and won't care whether it had two great periods—Roman and eighteenth century—or twenty, inextricably entangled with the South Pole and Kamchatka. More tired than I, even, for I have got a certain amount of satisfaction to the eye from the agreeable, classic-looking terraces and crescents, and the pure white stone buildings that glitter on the hillsides overlooking the Avon. That is the sort of background which is becoming to me, and as I had all my luggage meet me in Bath, I have been able to dress for it; whereas Miss Lethbridge has done most of her exploring in blue serge.
In a day or two we are off again—Wales sooner or later, I believe, though I ask no questions, as I don't care to draw attention to my own future plans. We were asked for a fortnight, and I am not troubling my memory to count by how many days we have overstayed—not our welcome, I hope—but our invitation. You will wonder perhaps why I "overstay," since I frankly admit that I'm "fed up" with too much scenery and too much information. Yet no, you are far too clever to wonder, dear Sis. You will see for yourself that I must go on, like "the brook," until Sir Lionel asks me to go on—as Lady Pendragon. Or else until I have to abandon hope. But I won't think of that. And I am being so nice to Mrs. Norton (whenever necessary) that I think she has forgiven me the colour of my hair, and will advise her brother to invite me to make a little visit at Graylees Castle, where it is understood the tour eventually comes to an end. When this end may arrive the god of automobiles knows. A chauffeur proposes; the motor-car disposes. And the Woman-in-the-Car never reposes—when there's another woman and a man in the case.
Your-enduring-to-the-end,
Gwen.
P. S.—That was an inspiration of mine about the Cheddar Cavern, wasn't it? I have another now, and will make a note of it. N.B.—Get Sir L. to take me to see the ruins of Tintern Abbey by moonlight (if any) and while there induce him to propose, or think he has done so. I have a white dress which would just suit.
XXVII