"We must meet in Bayreuth next year," she said. "Will you give me a rendezvous for the end of July?"
"No," said Mrs. Frampton, decidedly, before Grace could speak. "Before that, in my house in London. Make it your hotel, when you pass through, for as long as you can. Write or cable that you are coming; that is all that is necessary."
Grace had not felt so depressed since she landed in America as she did during that journey to Chicago. It was in vain she said to herself, over and over again, that nothing which her aunt or Mordaunt, or, least of all, Lady Clydesdale, had said concerning Ivor Lawrence, had the smallest effect on her. In one sense, it had not—she never doubted him. But the apprehension of an overwhelming trouble to him—a cloud, from which it might prove impossible to clear himself—had visibly strengthened in her mind. It was useless to argue against it; she could not shake off this cold, sickening dread which swept in gusts over her. With her usual bravery she concealed her feelings; but, the call for social exertion being now over, there were long spaces of silence and solitude on the journey, when, with a book in her hand, she could brood over this trouble, unsuspected by her two companions.
The route chosen was by Philadelphia. They did not stop at New York, but travelled straight through at night, arriving at their destination early in the morning. Here they halted the remainder of the day, and visited "Independence Hall," where the Declaration was signed, and where the room and its furniture remain much as they were on that famous day when the heat was so great and the flies so irritating that as the assembled gentlemen flicked their silk handkerchiefs and wiped their brows the voting is said to have been hurried through, and some members not even waited for. Yet the minority against the Declaration was a considerable one. As Mordaunt said to the amiable gentleman who acted as their guide,
"Who knows how a cold day and a full hall might have changed the destinies of this continent, eh?"
The amiable gentleman, being a stanch patriot, looked confounded. Then, after they had been shown several pastels of the chief voters and orators of that stirring time, and had examined the building, which is like many a Georgian mansion in the English counties, and was built of red bricks brought from England, they were driven through some portion of the largest and most beautiful city park in the world. It extends over three thousand acres of hill and dale, wood and winding river, untortured by man. Happily, to use the guide-book's language, "Art has as yet done little for it." May it never do more. It is a beautiful spot, and Philadelphia may be proud in the possession of so unique a playground.
But what of its streets? Mrs. Frampton was greatly disconcerted by being nearly jolted off her seat as she drove along.
"Did you ever see anything like it?" she cried. "I thought New York and Boston bad enough—but this! How can the people who live in those nice little red houses, picked out with white marble, and marble steps so beautifully clean—"
"Stoops. You must call them 'stoops,' aunt," said Mordaunt.
"Stoups? I never heard of a stoup of anything but Burgundy—in Scott's novels. But never mind. I say, how can people living in houses that are like Dutch toys, so spick and span, tolerate such roadways? Really, these Americans are an incomprehensible people!"