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I don't know what the passage money will be, but this is sure to be enough; and we can settle accounts afterwards. You will find out what time of day she will start." "All right, governor. I suppose you will be here again before that?" "No, I don't suppose I shall, unless there is some change in the arrangements. If for any reasons Tring cannot go with you, you will get somebody else instead.
Rupert Duncan, who was lending her genius to one of Ibsen's heroines at that moment; Miss Medea Tring, one of the latest American beauties; Corporal, the portrait-painter; Richard Giles, critic and man of letters; Hereward Blenheim, a young and rising politician, who before the age of thirty had already risen higher than most men of sixty; Sir Horace Silvester, K.C.M.G., the brilliant financier, with his beautiful wife Lady Irene; Professor Leo Newcastle, the eminent man of science; Lady Hyacinth Gloucester, and Mrs.
Three miles north of Tring lies the town of Ivinghoe, possessing a large cruciform church, worthy of a visit from the students of "Christian architecture," with an old sculptured timber roof, and containing a tomb with a Norman French inscription, according to some the tomb of Henry de Blois, Bishop of Winchester, brother of King Stephen.
Well, Old Tring told me while he was still there the war broke out, and he enlisted under Garibaldi and was killed in a skirmish just when peace was settled."
Lockton was at that moment discussing portraiture in novels with M. Faubourg, and during a pause Miss Tring was heard to make the following remark: "And is it true M. Faubourg, that 'Cecile' in 'La Mauvaise Bonte' is a portrait of some one you once loved and who treated you very badly?" M. Faubourg, a little embarrassed, said that a creative artist made a character out of many originals.
Also as the ward of a parson he was supposed to "be good" and know about such things as confirmations. As a matter of fact, he considered his own Tractarian principles, rigidly inculcated by Boase, as superior to the mild evangelical platitudes of Old Tring, and plumed himself accordingly.
"There are no young novelists worth mentioning," answered M. Faubourg. Miss Tring broke in and said she considered "Le Visage Emerveille," by the Comtesse de Noailles, to be the most beautiful book of the century, with the exception, perhaps, of the "Tagebuch einer Verlorenen." But from the end of the table Blenheim's utterance was heard preponderating over that of his neighbours.
"It wants something to take the taste of that place out of one's mouth," Tring said to Dick, as, directly they entered, he poured some spirits into the glasses. "I feel as queer as if I had been hocussed." All, indeed, were feeling the same, and it was not until they had eaten their supper and considerably lowered the spirits in the two bottles that they began to talk.
Tring station, a mile and a half from the town, may be reached from London, 31.5 miles, in less than an hour by the express train, and the traveller arrives in as wild a district as any in England.
A sister of a well-known author tells me there used to be a house called "The Swallows," standing in two acres of land, close to a village near Basingstoke. In 1840 a Mr. Bishop of Tring bought the house, which had long stood empty, and went to live there in 1841.
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