“No, no. They were nice and sentimental. I should like to go and sit and read poetry there. But I mean the big ones, the gorgeous, princely ones, with wicked old Bishop Laud's gallery looking into them.”
“Oh! St. John's, of course.”
“Yes, St. John's. Why do you hate Laud so, Katie?”
“I don't hate him, dear. He was a Berkshire man, you know. But I think he did a great deal of harm to the Church.”
“How did you think my new silk looked in the garden? How lucky I brought it, wasn't it? I shouldn't have liked to have been in nothing but muslin. They don't suit here; you want something richer amongst the old buildings, and on the beautiful velvety turf of the gardens. How do you think I looked?”
“You looked like a queen, dear; or a lady-in-waiting, at least.”
“Yes, a lady-in-waiting on Henrietta Maria. Didn't you hear one of the gentlemen say that she was lodged in St. John's when Charles marched to relieve Gloucester? Ah! Can't you fancy her sweeping about the gardens, with her ladies following her, and Bishop Laud walking just a little behind her, and talking in a low voice about—let me see—something very important?”
“Oh, Mary, where has your history gone? He was Archbishop, and was safely locked up in the Tower.”
“Well, perhaps he was; then he couldn't be with her, of course. How stupid of you to remember, Katie. Why can't you make up your mind to enjoy yourself when you come out for a holiday?”
“I shouldn't enjoy myself any the more for forgetting dates,” said Katie, laughing.