"Now," she said softly, turning to Henry with an air of eager interest, "do tell me all about your visit to Hampton. The name of the place sounds quite romantic to me. Is it on the map?"
"I'm afraid you would search your atlas for it in vain. At best it could only be a pin-point; like that very tiny German duchy which the American traveller said he would drive round rather than pay toll to pass through. It is smaller than the Laysford market-place."
"So small as that! Then it's all the more interesting to me."
"But there's really nothing to tell about it. One day is the same as another there. Nothing ever happens. It is a veritable Sleepy Hollow."
"But there were interesting folk there. You see, I know my Washington Irving."
Flo had the shrewdness to judge this to be an effective touch, and it did not matter that her knowledge of the American author was limited to the bare fact that he had written something about a place of that name.
"I am glad to find you have read one of my favourites," Henry replied, and the echo of an absurd "What is Meredith?" rang in his ears. It prompted him to ask, without apparent reason:
"By-the-by, have you read Meredith? He is one of the least known and greatest of living writers."
"Oh, yes, isn't he perfectly lovely?" She had a vague recollection of hearing the name somewhere.
"I am just in the middle of his latest novel, 'Beauchamp's Career.' It is positively Titanic."