People said to me, “What are you going to London for?” I said, “To get an English point of view.”  “Very well,” said one of the knowing ones, who has lived abroad the larger part of his life, “then you must go to ‘The Insular,’ in Piccadilly.  That is not only the smartest hotel in London, but it is the most typically British.  The rooms are let from season to season to the best country families.  There you will find yourself plunged headlong into English life with not an American environment to bless yourself with, and you will soon get your English point of view.”

“Ah-h,” responded the simpleton who goes by my name, “that is what we want.  We will go to ‘The Insular.’”

We wrote at once for rooms, and then telegraphed for them from Southampton.

The steamer did not land her passengers until the morning of the ninth day, which shows the vast superiority of going on a fast boat, which gets you in fully as much as fifteen or twenty minutes ahead of the slow ones.

Our luggage would not go on even a four-wheeler, so we took a dear little private bus and proceeded to put our mountainous American trunks on it.  We filled the top of this bus as full as it would hold, and put everything else inside.  After stowing ourselves in there would not have been room even for another umbrella.

In this fashion we reached “The Insular,” where we were received by four or five gorgeous creatures in livery, the head one of whom said, “Miss Columbia?” I admitted it, and we were ushered in, where we were met by more belonging to this tribe of gorgeousness, another of whom said, “Miss Columbia?”

“Yes,” I said, firmly, privately wondering if they were trying to trip me into admitting that I was somebody else.

“The housekeeper will be here presently,” said this person.  “She is expecting you.”

Forth came the housekeeper.

“Miss Columbia?” she said.

Once again I said “Yes,” patiently, standing on my other foot.

“If you will be good enough to come with me I will show you your rooms.”

A door opened outward, disclosing a little square place with two cane-bottomed chairs.  A man bounced out so suddenly that I nearly annihilated my sister, who was back of me.  I could not imagine what this little cubbyhole was, but as there seemed to be nowhere else to go, I went in.  The others followed, then the man who had bounced out.  He closed the door and shut us in, where we stood in solemn silence.  About a quarter of an hour afterwards I thought I saw something through the glass moving slowly downward, and then an infinitesimal thrill in the soles of my feet led me to suspect the truth.

“Is this thing an elevator?” I whispered to my sister.

“No, they call it a lift over here,” she whispered back.

“I know that,” I murmured, impatiently.  “But is this thing it?  Are we moving?  Are we going anywhere?”

“Why, of course, my dear.  They are slower than ours, that’s all.”