Coming into London, Cannon Street is a good station to choose, if your route permit, but going out, Euston or Charing Cross should, if possible, be selected.
Before, after, or during, our station visits, we touched on a few more churches.
The Temple Church proved a delight because of the bronze Knights peacefully resting there. Miss Anna told me they were called Crusaders because they chose to lie with their legs crossed. This was probably true, for the position was maintained by all of them. Oliver Goldsmith is buried here, but I had no particular desire to throw a stone into his graveyard, and so we went on. Owing to a change of mood, we no longer rode on the ’buses, but took a hansom from one place to another. This was not as extravagant as it might seem, for, notwithstanding assertions to the contrary, one cannot ride enough in London cabs to make the bill of any considerable amount, at least as compared to a New York cab bill. And Shakespeare averred that “nothing is small or great but by comparison.”
As our cab bumpily threaded its way along the crammed Strand, the bright-colored mass of humanity and traffic seemed to me the pre-eminent London. I wanted no more sight-seeing, I wanted no more historical association, I merely wanted to continue this opportunity for feasting on real City London. I voraciously bit off large chunks of the atmosphere as we passed through it, which I am even yet digesting and assimilating.
As a complement to this view of London, we suddenly decided to call on a friend for a cup of tea. A personal, at-home tea would be a pleasant contrast to the publicity of our day.
Deciding upon the coziest and homeliest tea-dispenser, we drove to Mrs. Todd’s in Kensington.
It is a great satisfaction to know that the unpromising portal of a London house will positively lead eventually to a delightful back garden, and tea.
We were welcomed by our charming hostess in her pretty trailing summeriness, and were immediately transformed from whimsical sight-seers into sociable tea-drinkers.
Though it was by no means a special occasion, the garden was bright with flowers and people, and the tea and cakes were served under the inevitable marquee. It was Mrs. Todd’s weekly day at home, and the guests were all amiable and charming. A young woman with a phenomenal voice sang to us from the back parlor windows, and thereby gave a stimulus to the conversation. All was usual and orthodox. Everybody listened politely to everybody’s else chatter, and, apparently unhearing, answered at random, and quite often wrongly.