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The old lady began to smile, and her smile was mysterious.

“Shall I tell you why I don’t write a book about London?” she said. “It’s because if I did, it would be considered uncanny, as Dad says.”

Betty began to look and feel excited.

“Oh, why? Do tell me why?”

“I’m not quite sure whether it would be of any use to tell you, but I shall know better in a few hours’ time, when I’ve seen a little more of you. I’m going to take you out for a drive now, before luncheon. The car is still at the door.”

Ten minutes later, Betty took her seat beside the old lady, and the car glided out of the quiet street into a busy thoroughfare. It was a lovely spring day, and she was glad to be out of doors in a part of London more or less new to her. She was also very curious about what Godmother had recently hinted, though she scarcely liked to question her on the subject.

They were passing Westminster Abbey now, and nodding toward it Godmother said:

“You don’t call that ugly?”

Before Betty could answer, they had reached the end of Westminster Bridge and turned on to the Embankment. Raised on the end parapet of the bridge, was a group of statues in which the chief figure was a woman in flowing robes furiously driving a strange-looking chariot.