the scene. Of course, I wouldn't be
such a wicked wretch as to yield to the temptation, but I should feel
it.

Ellaline promises to telegraph the moment Honore arrives, and again when
they're safely married, so as to give the understudy plenty of time to
scuttle off the stage, before the guardian is informed that his charge
has been taken off his hands. She doesn't want to see Sir Lionel, she
says, but she and Honore will write him unless, when Honore has
consulted a Scottish solicitor (if that's what they're called), it's
considered wiser for the lawyer himself to write. So you see, this makes
it harder for me to know what to do about repeating Mrs. Senter's story.
If Ellaline understood her position she would, perhaps, think it better
to come with her bridegroom and throw herself at her injured guardian's
feet.

What a nice world this would be if your affairs didn't get so hopelessly
tangled up with other people's that you can hardly call your conscience
your own! And never have I realized the niceness of the world more fully
than in the last few days.

[Illustration: "_Its twenty-one towers and turrets still dominate bridge
and river_"]

Yesterday I had a little easy climb with Sir Lionel and the old guide,
and saw the glory of Llanberis Pass. To-day, on the wings of Apollo, we
have flown through amazingly interesting country. It really did seem
like flying, because the road surface was so like velvet stretched over
elastic steel that eyesight alone told us we touched earth.

Miles aren't tyrants any more, but slaves to the mastery of good
motor-cars; and any motoring Monte Cristo can fairly exclaim, "The world
is mine!" (N. B. This isn't original. Sir Lionel said it at lunch.) From
North Wales to Cheshire looks a long run on the map, but motors are made
to live down maps; and we arrived in this astonishingly perfect old town
early in the afternoon, coming by way of Capel Curig (whence we saw
Snowdon crowned with a double rainbow), sweet Bettws-y-coed, or "station
in the wood," and so down the river valley in a bird swoop, to noble
Conway, with its castle that was once a famous Welsh fortress. Now, in
piping days of peace, its towers and turrets still dominate bridge and
river, and the great pile is as fine, in its way, as Carcassone. Don't
you remember, it was from Conway Castle that Richard the Second started
out to meet Bolingbroke?

We stopped to take photographs and buy a few small pearls from the
"pear