At Hampton Court the little flocks of visitors are not provided with an official bellwether, but are left to browse at discretion upon the local antiquities. It happened in this manner that, in default of another informant, Bessie Alden, who on doubtful questions was able to suggest a great many alternatives, found herself again applying for intellectual assistance to Lord Lambeth. But he again assured her that he was utterly helpless in such matters—that his education had been sadly neglected.
“And I am sorry it makes you unhappy,” he added in a moment.
“You are very disappointing, Lord Lambeth,” she said.
“Ah, now don’t say that,” he cried. “That’s the worst thing you could possibly say.”
“No,” she rejoined, “it is not so bad as to say that I had expected nothing of you.”
“I don’t know. Give me a notion of the sort of thing you expected.”
“Well,” said Bessie Alden, “that you would be more what I should like to be—what I should try to be—in your place.”
“Ah, my place!” exclaimed Lord Lambeth. “You are always talking about my place!”
The young girl looked at him; he thought she colored a little; and for a moment she made no rejoinder.
“Does it strike you that I am always talking about your place?” she asked.