It was the year 1890. Those days are very distant now. Victoria the Good was on the throne of Britain. W.G. went in first for Gloucestershire; Lohmann and Lockwood bowled for Surrey. The hansom was still the gondola of London. The Tube was not, and eke the motor-bus. The Daily Mail had not yet invented Lord Northcliffe. Orville Wright had not made good. William Hohenzollern used to come over to see his grandmother.
Indeed, on this almost incredibly distant evening in the world’s history, his grandmother in three colors and a widow’s cap, with a blue ribbon across her bosom, surmounted the sitting-room chimney-piece of Number Five, Beaconsfield Villas. And at the other end of the room, over the dresser, was an old gentleman with a beard, by common consent the wisest man in the realm, who talked about “splendid isolation,” and gave Heligoland to deep, strong, patient Germany in exchange for a tiny strip of Africa.
Yes, there were giants in those days. And no doubt there are giants in these. But it is not until little Miss Clio trips in with her scroll that we shall know for certain, shall we?
At the first crisp tap the door of Number Five was flung open.
“Harriet, so here you are!”
There was welcome in the eyes as well as in the voice of the eager, personable creature who greeted the visitor. There was welcome also in the gush of mingled gas and firelight from a cosy within.
“How are you, Eliza?”
The tall girl asked the question, shut the door, and kissed her sister, all in one breath, so that only a minute quantity of a London “partickler” was able to follow her into the room.
The hostess pressed Harriet into a chair, as near the bright fire as she could be persuaded to sit.