Mrs. Copley did not like London.  So she declared after a stay of some months had given her, as she supposed, an opportunity of judging.  The house they inhabited was not in a sufficiently fashionable quarter, she complained; and society did not seem to open its doors readily to the new American consul.

“I suppose, mother, we have not been here long enough.  People do not know us.”

“What do you call ’long enough’?” said Mrs. Copley with sharp emphasis.  “And how are people to know us, if they do not come to see us?  When people are strangers, is the very time to go and make their acquaintance; I should say.”

“English nature likes to know people before it makes their acquaintance,” Mr. Copley remarked.  “I do not think you have any cause to find fault.”

“No; you have all you want in the way of society, and you have no notion how it is with me.  That is men’s way.  And what do you expect to do with Dolly, shut up in this smoky old street?  You might think of Dolly.”

“Dolly, dear,” said her father, “are you getting smoked out, like your mother?  Do you want to go with me and see the Bank of England to-day?”

Dolly made a joyful spring to kiss her thanks, and then flew off to get ready; but stopped at the door.

“Won’t you go too, mother?”

“And tire myself to death?  No, thank you, Dolly.  I am not so young as I was once.”

“You are a very young woman for your years, my dear,” said Mr. Copley gallantly.

“But I should like to know, Frank,” said Mrs. Copley, thawing a little, “what you do mean to do with Dolly?”

“Take her to see the Bank of England.  It’s a wonderful institution.”

“You know what I mean, Frank.  Don’t run away from my question.  You have society enough, I suppose, of the kind that suits you; but Dolly and I are alone, or as near as possible.  What is to become of Dolly, shut up here in smoke and fog?  You should think of Dolly.  I can stand it for myself.”

“There’ll be no want of people to think of Dolly.”

“If they could see her; but they don’t see her.  How are they to see her?”

“I’ll get you a place down in the country, if you like; out of the smoke.”

“I should like it very much.  But that will not help Dolly.”

“Yes, it will; help her to keep fresh.  I’ll get her a pony.”

“Mr. Copley, you will not answer me!  I am talking of Dolly’s prospects.  You do not seem to consider them.”

“How old is Dolly?”

“Seventeen.”

“Too young for prospects, my dear.”

“Not too young for us to think about it, and take care that she does not miss them.  Mr. Copley, do you know Dolly is very handsome?”

“She is better than that!” said Mr. Copley proudly.  “I understand faces, if I don’t prospects.  There is not the like of Dolly to be seen in Hyde Park any day.”

“Why don’t you take her to ride in the Park then, and let her be seen?”

“Do you want her to marry an Englishman?”

Mrs. Copley was silent, and before she spoke again Dolly came in, ready for her expedition.

London was not quite to Dolly the disappointing thing her mother declared it.  She was at an age to find pleasure in everything from which a fine sense could bring it out; and not being burdened with thoughts about “prospects,” and finding her own and her mother’s society always sufficient for herself, Dolly went gaily on from day to day, like a bee from flower to flower; sucking sweetness in each one.  She had a large and insatiable appetite for the sight and knowledge of everything that was worth seeing or knowing; it followed, that London was to her a rich treasure field.  She delighted in viewing it under its historical aspect; she would study out the associations and the chronicled events connected with a particular point; and then, with her mind and heart full of the subject, go some day to visit the place with her father.  What pleasure she took in this way it is impossible to tell.  Mr. Copley was excessively fond and proud of his daughter, even though her mother thought him so careless about her interests; his life was a busy one, but from time to time he would spare half a day to give to Dolly, and then they went sight-seeing together.  Old houses, old gateways and courts, old corners and streets, where something had happened or somebody had lived that henceforth could never be forgotten, how Dolly studied them and hung about them!  Mr. Copley himself cared for no historical associations, neither could he apprehend picturesque effects; what he did care for was Dolly; and for her sake he would linger hours, if need were, around some bit of old London; and find amusement enough the while in watching Dolly.  Dolly studied like an antiquary, and dreamed like a romantic girl; and at the same time enjoyed fine effects with the true natural feeling of an artist; though Dolly was no artist.  The sense had not been cultivated, but the feeling was born in her.  So the British Museum was to her something quite beyond fairyland; a region of wonders, where past ages went by in procession; or better, stood still for her eyes to gaze upon them.  The Tower was another place of indescribable fascination.  How many visits they made to it I dare not say; Dolly never had enough; and her delight was so much of a feast to her father that he did not grudge the time nor mind what he would have called the dawdling.  Indeed it was a sort of refuge to Mr. Copley, when business perplexities or iterations had fairly wearied him, which sometimes happened; then he would flee away from the dust and confusion of present life in the city and lose himself with Dolly in the cool shades of the past.  That might seem dusty to him too; but there was always a fresh spring of life in his little daughter which made a green place for him wherever she happened to be.  So Mr. Copley was as contented with the condition of things at this time as it was in his nature to feel.  He had enough society, as his wife had stated; he had all he wanted in that line; he was just as well contented to keep Dolly for the present at home and to himself.  He did not want her to be snapped up by somebody, he said; and if you don’t mean to have a fire, you had best not leave matches lying about; a sentiment which Mrs. Copley received with great scorn.

It would have, so far, suited the views of both parents, to send Dolly to some first-rate boarding school for a year or two.  Only, they could not do without her.  She was the staple of Mrs. Copley’s life, and the spice of life to her husband.  Dolly was kept at home therefore, and furnished with masters in music and drawing, and at her pressing request, in languages also.  And just because she made diligent, conscientious use of these advantages and worked hard most of the time, Dolly the more richly enjoyed an occasional half day of wandering about with her father.  She came home from her visit to the Bank of England in high glee and with a brave appetite for her late luncheon.

“Well,” said Mrs. Copley, watching her, ­“now you have tired yourself out again; and for what?”

“O mother, it was a very great sight!” said Dolly.  “I wish you had been along.  I think it has given me the best notion of the greatness of England that I have got from anything yet.”

“Money isn’t everything,” said Mrs. Copley scornfully.  “I dare say we have just as good banks in America.”

“Father says, there is nothing equal to it in the world.”

“That is because your father is so taken with everything English.  He’d be sure to say that.  I don’t know why a bank in America shouldn’t be as good as a bank here, or anywhere.”

“It isn’t that, mother.  A bank might be good, in one sense; but it could not be such a magnificent establishment as this, anywhere but in England.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, the abundance of wealth here, mother; and the scale of everything; and the superb order and system.  English system is something beautiful.”  And Dolly went on to explain to her mother the arrangements of the bank, and in especial the order taken for the preservation and gradual destruction of the redeemed notes.

“I should like to know what is the use of such things as banks at all?” was Mrs. Copley’s unsatisfied comment.

“Why mother? don’t you know? they make business so much easier, and safer.”

“I wish there was no such thing as banks, then.”

“O mother!  Why do you say that?”

“Then your father would maybe let business alone.”

“But he is fond of business!”

“I don’t think business is fond of him.  He gets drawn into a speculation here and a speculation there, by some of these people he is always with; and some day he will do it once too often.  He has enough for us all now; if he would only keep to his consul’s business and let banks alone.”

Mrs. Copley looked worried, and Dolly for a moment looked grave; but it was her mother’s way to talk so.

“Why did he take the consulship?”

“Ask him!  Because he would rather be a nobody in England than a somebody in America.”

“Mother,” said Dolly after a pause, “we have an invitation to dinner.”

“Who?”

“Father and I.”

“Not me!” cried Mrs. Copley.  “You and your father, and not your father’s wife!”

“I suppose the people do not know you, mother, nor know about you; that must be the reason.”

“How do they know about you, pray?”

“They have seen me.  At least one of them has; so father says.”

“One of whom?”

“One of the family.”

“What family is it?”

“A rich banker’s family, father says.  Mr. St. Leger.”

“St. Leger.  That is a good name here.”

“They are very rich, father says, and have a beautiful place.”

“Where?”

“Some miles out of London; a good many, I think.”

“Where is your invitation?”

“Where? ­Oh, it is not written.  Mr. St. Leger asked father to come and bring me.”

“And Mrs. St. Leger has sent you no invitation, then.  Not even a card, Dolly?”

“Why no, mother.  Was that necessary?”

“It would have been civil,” said Mrs. Copley.  “It is what she would have done to an Englishwoman.  I suppose they think we don’t know any better.”

Dolly was silent, and Mrs. Copley presently went on. ­“How can you go to dinner several miles away?  You would have to come back in the night.”

“Oh no; we could not do that.  Mr. St. Leger asked us to stay over till next day.”

“It is just like everything else in this miserable country!” Mrs. Copley exclaimed.  “I wish I was at home!”

“Oh, why, mother?  We shall go home by and by; why cannot you enjoy things, while we are here?”

“Enjoy what?  Staying here in the house and seeing you and your father go off to dinners without me?  At home I am Mrs. Copley, and it means something; here, it seems, I am Mr. Copley’s housekeeper.”

“But, mother, nobody meant any affront.  And you will not see us go off and leave you; for I shall stay at home.”

“Indeed you will do no such thing!  I am not going to have you asked anywhere, really asked to a dinner, and not go.  You shall go, Dolly.  But I really think Mr. Copley might have managed to let the people know you had a mother somewhere.  That’s what he would have done, if it wasn’t for business.  It is business that swallows him up; and I don’t know for my part what life is good for so.  Once I had a husband.  Now, I declare I haven’t got anything but you, Dolly.”

“Mother, you have me,” said the girl, kissing her.  And the caress was so sweet that it reminded Mrs. Copley how much that one word “Dolly” signified; and she was quiet.  And when Mr. Copley came home, and the subject was discussed anew, she limited herself to inquiries about the family and questions concerning Dolly’s dress, refraining from all complaints on her own score.

“St. Leger?” said Mr. Copley.  “Who is he?  He’s a goodish old fellow; sharp as a hawk in business; but he’s solid; solid as the Bank.  That’s all there is about him; he is of no great count, except for his money.  He’ll never set the Thames on fire.  What did he ask us for? ­Humph!  Well ­he and I have had a good deal to do with each other.  And then ­” Mr. Copley paused and his eyes involuntarily went over the table to his daughter.  “Do you remember, Dolly, being in my office one day, a month ago or more, when Mr. St. Leger came in? he and his son?”

Dolly remembered nothing about it; remembered indeed being there, but not who came in.

“Well, they remember it,” said Mr. Copley.

“Is it a good place for Dolly to go?”

“Dolly?  Oh yes.  Why not?  They have a fine place out of town.  Dolly will tell you about it when she has been there.”

“And what must Dolly wear?” pursued Mrs. Copley.

“Wear?  Oh, just what everybody wears.  The regular thing, I suppose.  Dolly may wear what she has a mind to.”

“That is just what you know she cannot, Mr. Copley.  At home she might; but these people here are so very particular.”

“About dress?  Not at all, my dear.  English people let you go your own way in that as much as any people on the face of the earth.  They do not care how you dress.”

“They don’t care, no,” said Mrs. Copley; “they don’t care if you went on your head; but all the same they judge you according to how you look and what you do.  And us especially because we are foreigners.  I don’t want them to turn up their noses at Dolly because she is an American.”

“I’d as lieve they did it for that as for anything,” said Dolly laughing; “but I hope the people we are going to will know better.”

“They will know better, there is no fear,” answered her father.

The subject troubled Mrs. Copley’s head, however, from that time till the day of the dinner; and even after Dolly and her father had driven off and were gone, she still debated with herself uneasily whether a darker dress would have done better, and whether Dolly ought to have had flowers in her hair, to make her very best impression upon her entertainers.  For Dolly had elected to wear white, and would deck herself with no ornament at all, neither ribband nor flower.  Mrs. Copley half grumbled, yet could not but allow to herself that there was nothing to wish for in the finished effect; and Dolly was allowed to depart; but as I said, after she was gone, Mrs. Copley went on troubling herself with doubts on the question.