“But that was some years ago, was it not? If you went now, you would find that travelling has greatly improved, with a through sleeping-car from Calais to Basle; hotels excellent, and food quite as good as you can obtain in England. During the past few years hotel-keepers on the Continent have awakened to the fact that if they wish to be prosperous they must cater for English visitors.”
“Oh, do let us go abroad, aunt!” urged Edith. “I should so much enjoy it!”
“Paris in summer is worse than London, I’ve heard, my dear,” answered Miss Foskett, in her high-pitched tone.
“But there are many pretty places within easy reach of the capital,” I remarked. “Edith speaks French; therefore you need have no hesitation on that score.”
“No,” said the old lady decisively, “we shall not move from Ryburgh this summer, but perhaps next winter—”
“Ah!” cried Edith joyously. “Yes, capital! Let us go abroad next winter, to the Riviera, or somewhere where it’s warm. It would be delightful to escape all the rain and cold, and eat one’s Christmas dinner in the sunshine. You know the South, Gerald? What place do you recommend?”
“Well,” I said, “any place along the Riviera except, perhaps, Monte Carlo.”
“Monte Carlo!” echoed Aunt Hetty. “That wicked place! I hope I shall never see it. Mr Harbur told us in his sermon the other Sunday about the frightful gambling there, and how people hanged themselves on the trees in the garden. Please don’t talk of such places, Edith.”
“But, aunt, there are many beautiful resorts in the neighbourhood,” her niece protested. “All along the coast there are towns where the English go to avoid the winter, such as Cannes, Nice, Mentone, and San Remo.”
“Well,” responded Miss Foskett with some asperity, “we need not discuss in August what we shall do in December. Ryburgh is quite pleasant enough for me. When I was your age I employed my time with embroidery and wool-work, and never troubled my head about foreign travel. But nowadays,” she added with a sigh, “I really don’t know what young people are coming to.”