An ugly stone structure which, Marion informed her, frowning down at her notebook, was a water reservoir, took up two whole blocks. One imposing edifice was clearly a cathedral in the making. At a particularly large construction which her well-informed companion said would be the new Central Park Hotel, the traffic became busier again, for several of the streetcars terminated here, and a number of the special carriages which could be hired for drives through the park stood awaiting customers.

Informing their driver, through the hatch in the roof, that she most certainly did wish him to drive into the park, Marion smiled apologetically at Margaret. “I know you would much prefer to walk, but it is a very large park, bigger by far than anything London has to offer. Hard to believe it is only a few years old, isn’t it?”

“It’s lovely,” Margaret said, her eyes wide as their cab once more jolted into action. “It feels as if we have stumbled into another country.”

Though it was the depth of winter and the branches were bare, the park was still enchanting. A large pond with a pretty arched bridge gave way to vast swathes of what would be tempting green lawns in the summer. The main carriage-way ran at an elevated level, crossing a number of arched stone bridges below which smaller paths criss-crossed, and which Margaret determined to return to explore. A lake, clearly used in summer for boating, was partially frozen. They drove past woodland, and then south again, past another pond, and a large boathouse, before the carriage drew to a halt.

“Don’t want you to miss this, ladies,” their driver said, through the roof hatch. “The terrace is over there. It’s a short walk, but well worth the effort, I promise.”

They descended one of two broad flights of steps to a natural-looking amphitheatre, where an arcade or cloister had been built beneath the carriage drive. Refreshments were served inside this rather beautiful tiled interior, but Margaret and Marion were drawn to the large round basin where a fountain played, facing the pond, with a sign cautioning would-be skaters that the ice was dangerous.

“I love to ice-skate,” Margaret said, looking longingly at the partially frozen water. “There is a lochan, which freezes over most years, near Dalkeith Palace, my father’s home on the outskirts of Edinburgh.” She smiled, watching a little boy and girl chase each other round the fountain. “In London, one goes to the park to show off one’s toilette, to see and be seen. In the Season, by late afternoon there was a positive crush of carriages.”

“I expect they do something similar here.”

“I hated my London Season. I felt crushed by the weight of expectation.”

“To make a good match? It will be a very different experience here, if your only ambition is to establish yourself and not to find a husband. Assuming that you don’t wish to do so?”