July thickened down upon London. The society papers
announced that with the exception of the few unfortunate
gentlemen who were compelled to stay and look after their
constituents' interests, at Westminster, "everybody" had
gone out of town, and filled up yawning columns with
detailed information as to everybody's destination. To
an inexperienced eye, with the point of view of the top
of an Uxbridge Road omnibus for instance, it might not
appear that London had diminished more than the extent
of a few powdered footmen on carriage boxes; but the
census of the London world is after all not to be taken
from the top of an Uxbridge Road omnibus. London teemed
emptily, the tall houses in the narrow lanes of Mayfair
slept standing, the sunlight filtered through a depressing
haze and stood still in the streets for hours together.
In the Park the policemen wooed the nursery-maids free
from the embarrassing smiling scrutiny of people to whom
this serious preoccupation is a diversion. The main
thoroughfares were full of "summer sales," St. Paul's
echoed to admiring Transatlantic criticism, and the
Bloomsbury boarding-houses to voluble Transatlantic
complaint.
The Halifaxes were at Brighton, Lady Halifax giving
musical teas, Miss Halifax painting marine views in a
little book.
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