“How long have you been in London?” I inquired.
“Nearly a week; but I’ve not been out before. My aunt has been ill,” she explained.
“Then you live in the country, I suppose?”
“Yes, I have lived in Warwickshire, but my home lately has been in France.”
“In France!” I exclaimed, surprised. “Where?”
“At Montgeron, not far from Paris.”
“And you have come to London on a visit?”
“No. I have come to live here,” she replied; adding, “It is absurd that the first evening I go out I am so utterly lost. I know my way about Paris quite well.”
“But Paris is not London,” I said. “The suburbs of our metropolis are veritable Saharas, with their miles and miles of streets where the houses are exactly similar, as if the jerry-builders had not two ideas of architecture.”
It certainly was extraordinary that none of the thoroughfares which I had named gave her any clue to this remote street in which was situated her temporary home. She read down the names of the occupiers of the houses, but could not find her aunt’s name. True, there were some omissions, as there always are, and I began to fear that the Directory would not help us.