their lodgings; but it happened that at a more
primitive stage of her culture Mrs. Westgate had paid a visit to this
venerable monument, which she spoke of ever afterward vaguely as a
dreadful disappointment; so that she expressed the liveliest disapproval
of any attempt to combine historical researches with the purchase of
hairbrushes and notepaper. The most she would consent to do in this line
was to spend half an hour at Madame Tussaud's, where she saw several
dusty wax effigies of members of the royal family. She told Bessie that
if she wished to go to the Tower she must get someone else to take her.
Bessie expressed hereupon an earnest disposition to go alone; but upon
this proposal as well Mrs. Westgate sprinkled cold water.

"Remember," she said, "that you are not in your innocent little Boston.
It is not a question of walking up and down Beacon Street." Then she
went on to explain that there were two classes of American girls in
Europe--those that walked about alone and those that did not. "You
happen to belong, my dear," she said to her sister, "to the class that
does not."

"It is only," answered Bessie, laughing, "because you happen to prevent
me." And she devoted much private meditation to this question of
effecting a visit to the Tower of London.

Suddenly it seemed as if the problem might be solved; the two ladies at
Jones's Hotel received a visit from Willie Woodley. Such was the social
appellation of a young American who had sailed from New York a few days
after their own departure, and who, having the privilege of intimacy
with them in that city, had lost no time, on his arrival in London,
in coming to pay them his respects. He had, in fact, gone to see them
directly after going to see his tailor, than which there can be no
greater exhibition of promptitude on the part of a young American who
has just alighted at the Charing Cross Hotel. He was a slim, pale youth,
of the most amiable disposition, famous for the skill with which he led
the "German" in New York. Indeed, by the young ladies who habitually
figured in this Terpsichorean revel he was believed to be "the best
dancer in the world"; it was in these terms that he was always spoken
of, and that his identity was indicated. He was the gentlest, softest
young man it was possible to meet; he was beautifully dressed--"in the
English style"--and he knew an immense deal about London. He had been
at Newport during the previous summer, at the time of our