Some day I shall go back to England and see all the things I didn’t get enough of on my hurried visit. The memory of my two weeks in London is a jumble of teas, theatres, speech making, exhibition tennis, polo and Parliament, with hundreds of faces crowded in.
Nevertheless, a few particular incidents stand out. One is a vivid recollection of the gracious and brilliant Lady Astor. On my visit to her beautiful country place she led me to a corner and said:
“I’m not interested in you a bit because you crossed the Atlantic by air. I want to hear about your settlement work.” I was glad to find someone who regarded me as a human being, and after I told her of seeing Toynbee Hall upon which Denison House was patterned, she promised to send me a couple of books she thought I might like to read. She did and I did.
Like Christopher Robin, I enjoyed seeing the changing guard at Buckingham Palace—perhaps because it amused him. Driving to the left-hand side of roadways was as interesting as a new game to me, accustomed to American traffic rules.
“Should you like to meet the Prince of Wales?” This was the first question I was asked in a consolidated interview of newspaper writers.
“That depends on his Highness’ wishes,” an American official answered for me, courteously and correctly.
I said not a word myself, as his reply was emi-
