adies as comfortable as he could
on the after-deck, and read to them from _Maud_, from the _Idylls of the
King_, from the _Mill on the Floss_. Then windmills came into
sight--Dutch windmills; then Rotterdam, almost too soon. They went to
the big hotel on the Boompjes and fed, and then explored Rotterdam, and
found it a most delightful city.

Next day they got on board the steamboat bound for St. Katharine's
wharf; the wind had freshened and they soon separated, and met at
breakfast next morning in the Thames.

Barty declared he smelt Great Britain as distinctly as one can smell
a Scotch haggis, or a Welsh rabbit, or an Irish stew, and the old
familiar smell made him glad. However little you may be English, if
you are English at all you are more English than anything else, _et
plus royaliste que le Roi_!

According to Heine, an Englishman loves liberty as a good husband
loves his wife; that is also how he loves the land of his birth; at
all events, England has a kind of wifely embrace for the home-coming
Briton, especially if he comes home by the Thames.

It is not unexpected, nor madly exciting, perhaps; but it is
singularly warm and sweet if the conjugal relations have not been
strained in the meanwhile. And as the Thames narrows itself, the
closer, the more genial, the more grateful and comforting this
long-anticipated and tenderly intimate uxorious dalliance seems to
grow.

Barty felt very happy as he stood leaning over the bulwarks in the
sunshine, between Ida and Leah, and looked at Rotherhithe, and
promised himself he would paint it some day, and even sell the
picture!

Then he made himself so pleasant to the custom-house officers that
they all but forgot to examine the Gibson luggage.

Was I delighted to grasp his hand at St. Katharine's wharf, after so
many months? Ah!...

Mr. Gibson was there, funny as ever, and the Gibsons went home with
him to Conduit Street in a hired fly. Alas! poor Mrs. Gibson's
home-coming was the saddest part for her of the delightful little
journey.

And Barty and Ida and I went our own way in a four-wheeler to eat
the fatted calf in Brunswick Square, washed down with I will not say
what vintage. There were so many available from all the wine-growing
lands of Europe that I've forgotten which was chosen to celebrate
the wanderers' return!

Let us say Romane-Conti, which is the "cru" that Barty loved best.

* * * * *

Next morning Barty lef