"A bit off her feed one day—remarkably smooth voyage."
"Ah—it's certain to be a good crossing in August."
"Quite," I replied.
We got into the omnibus, after Helen had completed taking the census of the luggage.
"Don't trust Ted with anything like that," my mother remarked. "He's left my boxes all over the Continent."
I sat beside Helen, for I wanted to watch her face when she first saw the streets of London.
"Ted, look!" she cried, as we emerged from the classic gateway of Euston Station, "there's a huge horse with fluffy feet."
"It's a Clydesdale—aren't they beauties?"
"I never saw such a splendid horse."
My mother was sitting quietly watching us. I am afraid she felt I had gone a long way from her—or perhaps it was the effect of Leonidas. We had forgotten to warn the family he was coming. The first sight of Leonidas was always a shock to any one. Even my sister, who was thoroughly doggy, had recoiled when he smiled at her at the station. Helen was finding a succession of wonders through the omnibus window.