The editor of a monthly review came with his wife, and Lady Kildare,
the Irish philanthropist, brought her young nephew, Robert Owen, who had
come up from Oxford, and who was visibly excited and gratified by his
first introduction to Miss Burgoyne. Hilda was very nice to him, and he
sat on the edge of his chair, flushed with his conversational efforts
and moving his chin about nervously over his high collar. Sarah Frost,
the novelist, came with her husband, a very genial and placid old
scholar who had become slightly deranged upon the subject of the fourth
dimension. On other matters he was perfectly rational and he was easy
and pleasing in conversation. He looked very much like Agassiz, and
his wife, in her old-fashioned black silk dress, overskirted and
tight-sleeved, reminded Alexander of the early pictures of Mrs.
Browning. Hilda seemed particularly fond of this quaint couple, and
Bartley himself was so pleased with their mild and thoughtful converse
that he took his leave when they did, and walked with them over to
Oxford Street, where they waited for their 'bus. They asked him to come
to see them in Chelsea, and they spoke very tenderly of Hilda. "She's a
dear, unworldly little thing," said the philosopher absently; "more like
the stage people of my young days--folk of simple manners. There aren't
many such left. American tours have spoiled them, I'm afraid. They have
all grown very smart. Lamb wouldn't care a great deal about many of
them, I fancy.
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