It was from her more humble friends that Nora found it hardest to part.  She had had tea with the gardener’s wife and children of whom she was genuinely fond.  But it was the parting from Kate that had brought the tears to her eyes.  She had confided to that motherly soul how large she had loomed in the rosy plans she had made while she still had expectations from Miss Wickham, and been assured in turn that Kate couldn’t have fancied herself happier than she would have been in looking after her, and the faithful Kate refused to regard the plan as anything more than postponed.  It developed that she was an adept in telling fortunes with tea leaves.  She hoped her dear Miss Marsh wouldn’t consider it a liberty for her to say so, but in every forecast that Kate had made for herself in the last twelfth month, Miss Marsh had always been mixed up, which showed beyond the peradventure of a doubt that they were to meet again.

It was already dusk when London was reached, but Nora had an address of an inexpensive little private hotel which the doctor’s wife had given her.  She had written ahead to engage a room so that her mind was at ease on that subject.  Not knowing exactly where the street might be, further than that it led off the Strand, she indulged herself in the novel luxury of a taxi and drove to her new lodgings in state.

“If it isn’t too much out of the way, would you take me by way of Trafalgar Square, please.”

The chauffeur touched his cap.  His “Yes, Miss,” was non-committal.

She was conscious of an unusual feeling of exaltation as she went along.  London, while it can be one of the most depressing cities in the world when one is alone and friendless, quickens the imagination.  As they went through Trafalgar Square and caught a fleeting glimpse of the National Gallery, Nora resolved that she would give herself a real treat and renew old acquaintance with that institution as well as see the Wallace collection and the Tate Gallery, both of which would be new to her.  She realized more poignantly than ever how starved her love of beauty had been for the last ten years.  It awoke in her afresh with the thought that for a few days, at least, she could permit herself the luxury of gratifying it.

She was shown to her room by a neat maid who said she would see what might be done in the way of a light tea.  As a rule breakfast was the only repast that was supposed to be furnished.  But she was quite sure Miss Horn, the proprietor, would, in view of the fact that the young lady was a stranger in London and would hardly know where to go alone for a bite of dinner, make an exception.

Nora thanked her and set about making the bare little room, which was quite at the top of the house, look a little more homelike by unpacking some of her own things.  After all, she reflected, it wasn’t much less cheerful than the room she had had for ten years.  Perhaps her late participation in the splendors of Miss Wickham’s guest chamber, which had been part of Dr. Evans’ prescription, had spoiled her for simpler joys.  She laughed aloud at the thought.