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had no difficulty in persuading Sir Reginald to change the direction of the drives to the north of London, for he was in the mood to gratify any whim of hers. Accordingly, three days later we set out one morning to drive to Aldley on the Hill. For the first twelve miles the road lay on the great highway to the north which runs through Edgware and Hendon; then, beyond Stanmore, we turned off to the left and were among deserted lanes along which cyclists were not likely to be found in any numbers on account of the bad going. I saw countless spots naturally arranged for carriage accidents, could we drive out without the groom. We reached Aldley village at half-past one, and found that the church stood lonely on the top of the hill above it. It seemed best to lunch at the village inn first and explore the church afterwards. We did so, eating a genuine English village lunch; none of your country fare; the lands of the world seemed to have been ransacked to provide it. We ate, with what gusto we might, the mutton of Australia, the bacon of Canada, the