Mrs. Ketchum, however, declined to interfere, and when Bijou got back to the drawing-room Ethel was missing.  Taking advantage of Bijou’s absence, she had gone up-stairs, and, during the library interview, was saying to her aunt, “You never saw anything got up as she is,—­silk, and satin, and lace, and bracelets, and feathers, and what not.  And for church, too!  I wonder she should turn out like that:  she should have better taste.  I really don’t quite like going with her, she looks so conspicuous,—­just as if she were going to a garden-party or flower-show, for all the world.”  When they met again, both girls looked a little conscious, and Ethel said, “How very smart you are!”

“Why, this is an old dress that I put on for fear it might rain,” said Bijou.  “Don’t you hate having to wear goggles and cages and things?  It must be perfectly horrid.”

“I don’t mind.  Of course one isn’t looking one’s best; but that is of no consequence.  Health is the first consideration,” said Ethel.  “Ah! there comes your father.”

Of the walk it need only be said that it was very pleasant going, and rained a little coming back; that Ethel produced her “goloshes,” put up her umbrella, and walked home as serenely as her concern for Bijou would admit.  That young lady had on paper-soled boots that got soaking wet, a fine summer parasol that she seemed to think fulfilled every office that was desirable in shielding her bonnet, a dress ill fitted to resist chill or dampness.  She persisted that she was “all right,” while her pretty teeth chattered; but she caught a violent cold, and was in bed a week, while Ethel came down to dinner as rosy as Baby Ketchum, and ate as heartily as Mr. Ramsay and Mr. Heathcote, who certainly showed themselves good trenchermen.  Mrs. Ketchum persisted in regarding the two young men very much as though they had been returned Arctic travellers, and amused them not a little by suggesting that they should lie down all the evening.

“Why, we haven’t turned a hair.  We are as fit as a fiddle,” they exclaimed, and looked anything but unstrung.

Ethel had made one speech that astonished Bijou considerably.  “Do you know, I have been watching you ever since I have known you,” she said, “to see if it was true?  That is, that the American ladies spat on all occasions, as I have read.  Don’t think me rude to mention it.”

“We don’t quarrel any more than any one else,” said Bijou, quite misunderstanding.

“I don’t mean that, you know:  expectorate.  And I see it was not true at all.  I have not seen it once,” explained Ethel.

“I should think not!  Well, I do think!  How could you believe such ridiculous nonsense?” asked Bijou indignantly.

“Don’t be vexed, Bijou dear.  I did not mean to make unkind reflections.  It was only that I had read a stupid book about America,” said Ethel; and peace was restored.

As for the other members of the party, they had gone to a handsome church in Kalsing, which boasted the best stained glass in the country and was thoroughly churchly and attractive.  Here they not only heard good music, but one of the most eloquent preachers in “the American branch of the English establishment,” as Sir Robert called the Episcopalian communion.