“Yes, I believe he lived in both Johnson and Bolt Courts,” Mrs. Pitt told them. “His haunts were all about here. In number six, over there, Goldsmith is said to have written ‘The Vicar of Wakefield.’”
From there, they walked up Fleet Street, discussing their unusual lunch as they went. They had all enjoyed it,—even Betty.
She made them all laugh, however, by announcing seriously, “I’m glad I went, but I think it is just about as nice to read about lunching there, as to really do it. And then, you wouldn’t be quite so hungry afterwards!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
A SUNDAY NIGHT CHAT
It was Sunday afternoon, and the time for John and Betty to send their weekly letters home. The day was a beautiful one in early spring, the grass and trees in the garden behind the house were very green, birds were singing outside, people were continually walking by, and the letters progressed but slowly. Every few moments Betty stole a glance out-of-doors, and John sat leaning his elbow on the desk chewing the end of his penholder, while he gazed steadily out of the window.
“Well, what do you think of it all, John?” asked Betty thoughtfully. “Aren’t we glad we came, and aren’t Mrs. Pitt and Barbara and Philip good to us?”
“Just splendid!” exclaimed John most emphatically. He had turned away from the window now, and was entering earnestly into the conversation. “I just tell you what, Betty, it’s a different thing to peg away at an old, torn history-book at school, and to come over here and see things and places, while Mrs. Pitt tells you about them! Why, I honestly like English history the way we’re learning it now!”