Chapter 17

"Come, these are no times to think of dreams--
We'll talk of dreams hereafter."

SHAKSPEARE.

The day succeeding that in which the conversation just mentioned
occurred, was one of great expectation and delight in the Wigwam.
Mrs. Hawker and the Bloomfields were expected, and the morning passed
away rapidly, under the gay buoyancy of the feelings that usually
accompany such anticipations in a country-house. The travellers were
to leave town the previous evening, and, though the distance was near
two hundred and thirty miles, they were engaged to arrive by the
usual dinner hour. In speed, the Americans, so long as they follow
the great routes, are unsurpassed; and even Sir George Templemore,
coming, as he did, from a country of MacAdamized roads and excellent
posting, expressed his surprise, when given to understand that a
journey of this length, near a hundred miles of which were by land,
moreover, was to be performed in twenty-four hours, the stops
included.

"One particularly likes this rapid travelling," he remarked, "when it
is to bring us such friends as Mrs. Hawker."

"And Mrs. Bloomfield," added Eve, quickly. "I rest the credit of the
American females on Mrs. Bloomfield."

"More so, than on Mrs. Hawker, Miss Effingham."

"Not in all that is amiable, respectable, feminine, and lady-like;
but certainly more so, in the way of mind. I know, Sir George
Templemore, as a European, what your opinion is of our sex in this
country."

"Good heaven, my dear Miss Effingham!--My opinion of your sex, in
America! It is impossible for any one to entertain a higher opinion
of your country-women--as I hope to show--as, I trust, my respect and
admiration have always proved--nay, Powis, you, as an American, will
exonerate me from this want of taste--judgment--feeling--"

Paul laughed, but told the embarrassed and really distressed baronet,
that he should leave him in the very excellent hands into which he
had fallen.

"You see that bird, that is sailing so prettily above the roofs of
the village," said Eve, pointing with her parasol in the direction
she meant; for the three were walking together on the little lawn, in
waiting for the appearance of the expected guests; "and I dare say
you are ornithologist enough to tell its vulgar name."

"You are in the humour to be severe this morning--the bird is but a
common swallow."

"One of which will not make a summer, as every one knows. Our
cosmopolitism is already forgotten, and with it, I fear, our
frankness."

"Since Powis has hoisted his national colours, I do not feel as free