to copy for you: "Many and bitter controversies raged around the question. In 1176, at the Council of Westminster, Richard of Canterbury arriving first seated himself in the place of honor on the right hand of the Papal legate Huguccio. Roger de Pont l'Evêque, Archbishop of York, entering later seated himself in Canterbury's lap! He was violently removed and ejected with cries of 'Away! away! betrayer of St. Thomas! His blood is still upon thy hands.'”

Very indecorous of these reverend gentlemen to be sitting in each other's laps, was it not? Especially so as the "Most Reverend and Right Honorable" of York seems to have been of French extraction and should have had

better manners. It appears that Roger of York was suspected, and not without foundation, of having instigated the murder of Thomas à Becket. Z. is my authority for all of this, which interests her immensely, as she took a full course of Becket at Canterbury. She says that the long dispute was finally settled by Pope Innocent VI who gave the Bishops of the two Sees titles as nearly alike as the law would allow.

"For a good free fight, give me a religious controversy!" exclaimed Walter, which made

the Scotchman laugh immoderately, thinking all the while, no doubt, of Jenny Geddes and her three-legged projectile.

Everything was peaceful enough at Bishopthorp, this afternoon, and a beautiful place it is, with a lawn sloping down to the river and fine trees and flowers. We were shown the lower rooms of the palace, as they call it, and some interesting portraits, which was so kind that I wondered why the family in residence did not extend its hospitality to the extent of inviting us to have tea with them on the lawn. These tea tables set out on the green are so alluring, and as we were the only visitors this afternoon it would have been a graceful act of international courtesy that would not have seriously taxed the episcopal larder. I am quite sure that if a party of English people happened to be visiting at any mansion at home, public or private, where refreshments were being served on the lawn, they would have been cordially invited to assist. And then our English brothers and sisters have grown so fond of us since the Spanish war, and since President Roosevelt took a hand in settling the difficulty between Russia and Japan, that no amount of civility would surprise us. Even English women

whom we meet seem to realize that we have

a President who counts for something in the affairs of the great world, and the first question that the men ask us is, "What is your President going to do?" They refer, of course, to that much-discussed "third term,” as if anyone under the shining sun could answer such a question!

We are to motor to Aldborough to-morrow to see the Roman museum there, but quite aside from that it will be enchanting to have a spin over these fine roads. Z. is anxious to see Coxwold where Sterne was vicar in his last years and where he wrote "The Sentimental Journey," and Walter wants to see the battle-field of Marston Moor. It is quite a question whether the literary, warlike, and antiquarian tastes can be accommodated in one day even with the help of a motor, but Walter will manage it if it can be done.

By the way, Z. did see a place near Durham where they said Elizabeth Barrett was born, and they saw the register of her birth, in 1806, in the parish church near by. She is quite triumphant, and yet she has regrets because this date settles conclusively the much-discussed question as to whether Elizabeth was three or six years older than Robert. Z. would prefer to have only three years between them, but it

really does not seem as if this fact should make much difference to us as it did not seem seriously to disturb the "contracting parties," as our newspapers would dub the two poets.

The day after our Aldborough jaunt we go to London. The M.D. has announced that he intends to meet us there, as he wishes to be in London for the last days of the British Medical Association. Miss H. tells us that he is a laird in his own country, which probably does not mean much as I have heard that lairds are quite plentiful in Scotland; but since hearing this Z. is impressed by something about the carriage of his head which she considers a mark of blood. He certainly is not handsome; quite the contrary; but he is quite good fun, and has a fine sense of humor, although “a bit slow about taking another fellow's jokes," as Walter puts it. Z. has been so much occupied with Christine that she seems to have forgotten how to write, but she will doubtless find out how to use her pen when she gets to London, and in any case you will be sure to hear from

Your devoted

ANGELA.

VIII

SIX DAYS IN LONDON

CAVENDISH SQUARE, August 13th.

LONDON is of course much less gay than when we left it in July. Hyde Park, where English beauty and East Indian rhododendrons both bloomed so luxuriantly in the season, is quite deserted, its much-coveted penny chairs unoccupied; its long line of carriages and their burden of gayly-dressed women, adorned with boas, floating veils, and scarfs, which they carry off with such infinite grace and charm, have betaken themselves to pastures new. The pink geraniums and daisies in the window boxes on Grosvenor and Berkeley Squares, and along the upper part of Piccadilly, have faded and others have not come to take their places. In the shops we meet more American than English women, for this is the season when the London shopkeeper reaps a rich harvest from the trans-Atlantic tourist. The fact that "the dun year's brilliant flower" has ceased to bloom does not disturb us. London is never