‘Carmarthen is as fine, and Swansea finer!’ says Mrs Jenkins, her face expressive of great disappointment.

‘Draw down your veils, and stand there whilst I get a cab,’ says Howel, after they have descended upon the platform.

Netta trembles all over, and fancies every tall man in black must be Rowland.

‘Name o’ goodness what are all the people about?’ says Mrs Jenkins.  ’My deet, there do be a lot of carriages!  And look you, Netta, at all the gentlemen’s servants in blue and silver!  Here’s a place! big enough to hold our town.  Look you at the glass—­like a large hot-house.  Seure all London isn’t covered up like this!’

‘Here you are! all right—­come along quick!’ says Howel, taking them to a cab, and putting them in.

‘Half Moon Street, Piccadilly,’ and off they go, as fast as the poor cab-horse can take them.

‘Now, what do you think of it, Netta?’ asks Howel, as they drive through the magnificent streets and squares of the West End of London, where every house looks a palace.

Netta was so bewildered that she could not answer; but Mrs Jenkins talked for both.

’Look you! well to be seure! that’s grander than I ever see.  There’s a church!  Trees too!  Who’d be thinking of trees in London?  Well, name o’ goodness, where are all they people going?  That church ’ont hold ’em all!  There’s beauty!  Is that St Paul’s, Howel, bach! or the Monument?  My Griffey was talking of them!  There’s houses!  Seure that’s Prince Albert’s coach!  There again!  Where was all those carriages going?  Ach a fi! that man was just driving into our horse.  Howel, name o’ goodness tell the coachman to tak’ care.  He’ll be upsetting us.  Yes, indeet, Netta, there’s shops!  One after another.  Did you be buying Netta’s wedding clothes there, Howel!  Is that a play-house?  No! not a gentleman’s house?  I ’ould like to see a play for wanst, if nobody ’ould tell our minister.’

‘If you are not too tired, I’ll take you to-night, mother,’ here broke in Howel.  ’We may go, perhaps, after you have had some tea.  What do you say, Netta?’

‘Anywhere you like, Howel,’ said Netta, ’I am no more ready than if I was just starting.’

‘Pic what, Howel, was you calling this?’ asked Jenkins.

‘Piccadilly, mother.  One of the best parts of London.’

’Deet, and I should think so.  ’Tis like a ’lumination lights.  There’s no night here.  Daylight all the year round.  Trees again, like Glanyravon Park, and lights along by.  There pretty—­what a many carriages!  Was they all going to the play?  Soldiers, too, I am thinking!  And more o’ them gentlemen’s servants in blue and white.  Do all the servants in London be wearing the same livery, Howel?’

‘Those are the police, mother,’ said Howel, laughing.

’The pleece!  Well, I do be calling them handsome men.  When will the noise stop, Howel?  I can’t hear myself speak, much less you and Netta.  ’Tis more noise than Hollantide fair!  But maybe ’tis fairday here to-day, only I wasn’t seeing no cattle.  There for you! that man ’ll upset us, seure he will.’