The Clemenses decided to build in Hartford.  They bought a plot of land on Farmington Avenue, in the literary neighborhood, and engaged an architect and builder.  By spring, the new house was well under way, and, matters progressing so favorably, the owners decided to take a holiday while the work was going on.  Clemens had been eager to show England to his wife; so, taking little Sissy, now a year old, they sailed in May, to be gone half a year.

They remained for a time in London—­a period of honors and entertainment.  If Mark Twain had been a lion on his first visit, he was hardly less than royalty now.  His rooms at the Langham Hotel were like a court.  The nation’s most distinguished men—­among them Robert Browning, Sir John Millais, Lord Houghton, and Sir Charles Dilke—­came to pay their respects.  Authors were calling constantly.  Charles Reade and Wilkie Collins could not get enough of Mark Twain.  Reade proposed to join with him in writing a novel, as Warner had done.  Lewis Carroll did not call, being too timid, but they met the author of “Alice in Wonderland” one night at a dinner, “the shyest full-grown man, except Uncle Remiss, I ever saw,” Mark Twain once declared.

Little Sissy and her father thrived on London life, but it wore on Mrs. Clemens.  At the end of July they went quietly to Edinburgh, and settled at Veitch’s Hotel, on George Street.  The strain of London life had been too much for Mrs. Clemens, and her health became poor.  Unacquainted in Edinburgh, Clemens only remembered that Dr. John Brown, author of “Rab and His Friends,” lived there.  Learning the address, he walked around to 23 Rutland Street, and made himself known.  Doctor Brown came forthwith, and Mrs. Clemens seemed better from the moment of his arrival.

The acquaintance did not end there.  For a month the author of “Rab” and the little Clemens family were together daily.  Often they went with him to make his round of visits.  He was always leaning out of the carriage to look at dogs.  It was told of him that once when he suddenly put his head from a carriage window he dropped back with a disappointed look.

“Who was it?” asked his companion.  “Some one you know?”

“No, a dog I don’t know.”

Dr. John was beloved by everybody in Scotland, and his story of “Rab” had won him a world-wide following.  Children adored him.  Little Susy and he were playmates, and he named her “Megalopis,” a Greek term, suggested by her great, dark eyes.

Mark Twain kept his promise to lecture to a London audience.  On the 13th of October, in the Queen’s Concert Rooms, Hanover Square, he gave “Our Fellow Savages of the Sandwich Islands.”  The house was packed.  Clemens was not introduced.  He appeared on the platform in evening dress, assuming the character of a manager, announcing a disappointment.  Mr. Clemens, he said, had fully expected to be present.  He paused, and loud murmurs arose from the audience.  He lifted his hand and the noise subsided.  Then he added, “I am happy to say that Mark Twain is present and will now give his lecture.”  The audience roared its approval.