ALAS
!
A
Novel
BY
RHODA
BROUGHTON
AUTHOR
OF
'
COMETH
UP
AS
A
FLOWER
,
'
'
RED
AS
A
ROSE
IS
SHE
,
'
'
SECOND
THOUGHTS
,
'
'
GOOD-BYE
,
SWEETHEART
!
,
'
'
NANCY
,
'
'
DOCTOR
CUPID
,
'
ETC.
A
NEW
EDITION
LONDON
RICHARD
BENTLEY
AND
SON
Publishers
in
Ordinary
to
Her
Majesty
the
Queen
1891
[
All
rights
reserved
]
TO
MRS.
ANDREW
SPOTTISWOODE
PART
I
.
Amelia
.
CHAPTER
I
.
"
If
you
will
allow
me
,
I
shall
have
the
pleasure
of
reading
aloud
to
you
some
passages
from
'
Mrs
.
Lirriper
's
Lodgings
,
'
by
Charles
Dickens
.
I
do
not
know
much
about
the
book
myself
,
as
I
have
never
read
it
.
I
dare
say
that
you
know
more
about
it
than
I
do
;
but
I
am
given
to
understand
"
(
with
a
glance
at
the
page
before
him
)
"
that
Mrs.
Lirriper
was
a
lodging-house-keeper
,
that
she
kept
lodgings
in
London
.
She
was
a
very
good
sort
of
woman
,
I
believe
"
(
another
hasty
glance
)
,
"
but
she
sometimes
had
trouble
with
her
servants
.
I
am
told
that
servants
are
troublesome
sometimes
"
(
a
slight
nervous
laugh
,
the
more
nervous
because
it
does
not
seem
to
be
followed
by
any
echo
from
the
audience
)
.
"
If
you
will
allow
me
then
,
as
I
say
,
and
if
you
think
it
will
amuse
you
,
I
will
read
you
a
little
of
what
she
says
about
these
troubles
.
"
The
foregoing
remarks
are
uttered
in
a
loud
,
shy
,
dogged
voice
by
James
Burgoyne
to
the
"
Oxford
Women
's
Provident
Association
.
"
His
voice
is
loud
because
,
being
quite
unused
to
public
reading
,
he
does
not
know
how
to
modulate
it
;
it
is
shy
from
the
same
cause
of
unaccustomedness
;
it
is
dogged
because
he
is
very
much
displeased
with
his
present
occupation
,
and
has
not
been
successful
in
concealing
that
displeasure
.
When
a
man
runs
down
to
Oxford
for
a
couple
of
nights
,
to
see
how
the
six
years
that
have
passed
since
he
turned
his
undergraduate
back
upon
the
old
place
have
treated
her
—
runs
down
to
a
college
chum
unseen
for
the
same
six
years
—
this
is
certainly
not
the
way
in
which
he
expects
to
spend
one
of
his
two
evenings
.
"
I
hope
you
will
not
mind
,
Jim
"
—
ominous
phrase
—
the
college
friend
has
said
;
"
but
I
am
afraid
we
shall
have
to
turn
out
for
half
an
hour
after
dinner
.
It
is
rather
a
nuisance
,
particularly
as
it
is
such
a
wet
night
;
but
the
fact
is
,
I
have
promised
to
read
to
the
'
Oxford
Women
's
Provident
Association
.
'
Ah
,
by-the-bye
,
that
is
new
since
you
were
here
—
we
had
no
Provident
Women
in
your
day
!
"
"
On
the
other
hand
,
we
had
a
great
many
improvident
men
,
"
returns
Jim
dryly
.
"
Well
,
the
fact
is
,
my
wife
is
on
the
committee
,
and
a
good
deal
interested
in
it
,
and
we
give
them
a
sort
of
entertainment
once
a
month
through
the
winter
terms
—
tea
and
buns
,
that
kind
of
thing
,
sixpence
a
head
;
they
enjoy
it
far
more
than
if
we
gave
it
them
for
nothing
;
and
after
tea
we
get
people
to
recite
and
read
and
sing
to
them
.
I
am
sure
I
wish
them
joy
of
my
reading
to-night
,
for
I
do
not
see
how
I
am
to
make
myself
audible
;
I
am
as
hoarse
as
a
crow
.
"
"
I
know
those
Oxford
colds
of
old
,
"
returns
Burgoyne
,
with
that
temperate
compassion
in
his
voice
which
we
accord
to
our
neighbours
'
minor
diseases
.
He
is
sorry
that
his
friend
has
a
cold
;
but
he
little
knows
how
much
sorrier
he
will
be
in
the
course
of
the
next
hour
as
he
adds
:
"
Do
not
distress
yourself
about
me
;
I
shall
be
quite
happy
in
your
den
with
a
book
and
a
cigarette
.
Mrs.
Brown
does
not
object
,
does
she
?
And
I
dare
say
you
will
not
be
very
long
away
.
"
As
he
speaks
he
realizes
,
with
a
sort
of
pang
—
the
pang
we
pay
sometimes
to
our
dead
pasts
—
that
,
though
it
is
only
three
hours
since
he
was
reunited
to
his
once
inseparable
Brown
,
he
is
already
looking
forward
with
relief
to
the
prospect
of
an
hour
's
freedom
from
his
society
—
so
terribly
far
apart
is
it
possible
to
grow
in
six
years
.
But
,
before
his
half-fledged
thought
has
had
time
to
do
more
than
traverse
his
brain
,
Brown
has
broken
into
it
with
the
eager
remonstrances
of
a
mistaken
species
of
hospitality
.
"
Leave
you
behind
?
Could
not
hear
of
such
a
thing
!
Of
course
you
must
come
too
!
It
will
be
a
new
experience
for
you
;
a
wholesome
change
.
Ha
!
ha
!
and
we
can
talk
all
the
way
there
and
back
;
we
have
had
no
talk
worth
speaking
of
yet
.
"
Again
it
flashes
across
the
other
's
mind
,
with
the
same
pensive
regret
as
before
,
that
talk
worth
speaking
of
is
for
ever
over
between
them
;
but
,
seeing
that
further
attempts
at
evasion
will
seriously
hurt
the
good-natured
Brown
,
he
acquiesces
,
with
as
fair
a
grace
as
he
may
.
While
putting
on
his
own
mackintosh
,
he
watches
,
with
a
subdued
wonder
,
his
friend
winding
himself
into
a
huge
white
woollen
comforter
,
and
stepping
into
a
pair
of
goloshes
(
he
had
been
rather
a
smart
undergraduate
in
his
day
)
,
while
outside
the
opened
hall
door
the
rain
is
heard
to
swish
,
and
the
wind
to
bellow
.
"
Had
not
we
better
have
a
hansom
?
"
suggests
Burgoyne
,
blinking
,
as
the
slant
gust
sends
two
or
three
stinging
drops
into
his
eyes
.
"
A
hansom
!
nonsense
!
"
returns
the
other
,
laughing
,
and
with
difficulty
unfurling
an
umbrella
in
the
teeth
of
the
blast
.
"
It
is
all
very
well
for
a
bloated
bachelor
like
you
;
but
a
man
whose
family
is
increasing
at
the
rate
mine
is
cannot
afford
himself
such
luxuries
;
come
along
,
you
are
not
sugar
or
salt
.
"
Burgoyne
feels
that
at
this
moment
he
can
at
all
events
conscientiously
disclaim
affinity
with
the
first
of
the
two
.
It
is
indeed
a
wet
night
,
wet
as
the
one
immortalized
by
Browning
in
"
Christmas
Eve
and
Easter
Day
;
"
and
who
ever
brought
a
wet
night
and
wet
umbrellas
"
wry
and
flapping
"
so
piercingly
home
to
us
as
he
?
The
talk
so
cheerfully
promised
by
Burgoyne
's
sanguine
friend
is
rendered
absolutely
impossible
by
the
riot
of
the
elements
.
It
is
a
good
step
from
the
suburban
villa
,
which
is
the
scene
of
Brown
's
married
joys
,
to
the
room
in
the
heart
of
the
town
where
the
Provident
Matrons
hold
their
sabbat
;
and
by
the
time
that
the
two
men
have
reached
that
room
there
is
,
despite
his
mackintosh
,
little
of
Burgoyne
left
dry
except
his
speech
.
They
are
under
shelter
at
last
,
however
,
have
entered
the
building
,
added
their
umbrellas
to
many
other
streaming
wrecks
of
whalebone
huddled
in
a
corner
,
and
exchanged
the
dark
blustering
drench
for
a
flare
of
gas
,
a
reek
of
tea
,
and
a
sultry
stream
of
wet
clothes
and
humanity
.
The
tea
,
indeed
,
is
a
thing
of
the
past
—
all
its
apparatus
has
been
removed
.
The
rows
of
chairs
are
all
set
to
face
the
platform
,
and
on
those
chairs
the
Provident
Women
sit
,
smiling
,
if
damp
,
with
here
and
there
a
little
boy
,
evidently
too
wicked
to
be
left
at
home
,
comfortably
wedged
between
a
couple
of
matronly
figures
.
The
entertainment
has
already
begun
,
and
an
undergraduate
—
damp
,
like
everyone
else
—
is
singing
,
in
a
booming
bass
voice
,
something
of
a
vaguely
boastful
nature
about
what
he
once
did
"
In
Bilboa
's
Bay
.
"
Burgoyne
has
for
the
moment
lost
sight
of
his
chaperon
,
and
remains
standing
near
the
door
,
looking
upon
the
scene
around
him
with
an
eye
from
which
philanthropy
is
all
too
criminally
absent
.
About
him
are
grouped
a
few
ladies
and
gentlemen
—
more
of
the
former
than
the
latter
—
who
are
obviously
about
to
give
their
services
,
judging
by
their
rolls
of
music
and
the
books
in
their
hands
.
His
look
passes
over
them
indifferently
—
he
has
no
acquaintance
among
them
.
He
had
never
known
many
of
the
Oxford
householders
,
and
there
is
no
place
where
a
man
becomes
superannuated
after
so
short
a
lapse
of
years
.
Here
are
new
arrivals
.
He
turns
his
head
mechanically
as
the
opening
door
reveals
the
advent
of
more
umbrellaed
and
mackintoshed
waterfalls
.
Two
men
and
a
lady
.
As
his
eye
alights
on
the
woman
,
he
does
not
start
—
we
Anglo-Saxons
are
not
apt
to
make
our
slow
grave
bodies
the
indexes
of
our
emotions
—
but
he
is
conscious
of
an
odd
and
puzzling
sensation
.
Where
has
he
seen
that
face
before
?
"
Bilboa
's
Bay
"
has
come
to
an
end
without
his
perceiving
it
.
He
is
putting
his
memory
through
her
paces
,
trying
to
find
some
niche
in
his
three
happy
Oxford
years
in
which
to
place
that
strangely
known
yet
unknown
figure
.
There
is
no
such
niche
.
It
is
not
an
Oxford
memory
at
all
.
What
is
it
then
?
An
earlier
or
a
later
one
?
His
eyebrows
are
drawn
together
in
the
effort
of
recollection
,
making
him
look
,
if
possible
,
crosser
than
before
,
when
he
is
made
aware
of
the
return
of
Brown
by
finding
his
arm
seized
,
and
his
friend
's
voice
—
a
good
deal
hoarser
even
than
when
they
left
home
—
in
his
ear
,
"
Jim
,
do
you
feel
inclined
to
do
a
very
good-natured
thing
?
"
"
Not
in
the
least
,
"
replies
Burgoyne
promptly
;
"
if
anyone
wishes
to
borrow
£
5
from
me
,
I
should
advise
him
to
choose
a
moment
when
I
am
drier
about
the
legs
.
"
Burgoyne
has
very
often
stood
up
to
and
over
his
knees
in
water
for
hours
,
watching
for
ducks
among
whistling
reeds
on
winter
mornings
,
and
never
thought
himself
at
all
to
be
pitied
;
but
he
is
thoroughly
vexed
now
at
his
moist
trousers
.
Brown
,
however
,
is
not
so
easily
rebuffed
.
"
I
should
be
awfully
obliged
to
you
,
"
he
says
croakily
;
"
you
would
be
laying
me
under
a
very
real
obligation
if
you
would
—
—
"
He
stops
to
cough
.
"
If
I
would
what
?
"
returns
the
other
curtly
,
and
looking
apprehensively
at
a
book
which
Brown
is
expanding
before
his
eyes
.
"
If
you
would
read
instead
of
me
.
"
"
I
!
"
"
Why
,
the
fact
is
"
—
coughing
noisily
again
as
if
to
show
that
there
is
no
imposition
—
"
I
suppose
the
fog
must
have
got
down
my
throat
;
but
I
find
I
cannot
speak
above
a
whisper
.
I
should
not
be
heard
beyond
the
front
row
;
come
,
old
man
,
do
a
good-natured
thing
for
once
in
your
life
.
"
There
is
a
pause
;
Burgoyne
is
not
very
fond
of
being
asked
to
do
a
good-natured
thing
.
He
can
do
a
big
one
every
now
and
then
,
but
he
is
not
particularly
fond
of
being
asked
to
do
a
small
one
.
"
Surely
there
must
be
many
people
here
much
better
suited
for
it
than
I
am
,
"
he
says
presently
,
looking
uncomfortably
round
in
search
of
the
little
group
of
booked
and
musicked
persons
whom
he
had
seen
but
now
standing
near
him
,
but
it
had
melted
.
"
That
is
just
what
there
are
not
,
"
rejoins
Brown
,
pressing
his
point
with
the
more
eagerness
,
as
he
thinks
he
sees
signs
of
yielding
;
"
we
are
very
short
of
hands
to-night
,
and
my
wife
has
just
heard
that
the
girl
upon
whom
she
was
counting
for
a
couple
of
songs
is
in
bed
with
influenza
.
"
"
Happy
girl
!
I
wish
I
too
was
in
bed
with
influenza
,
"
says
Jim
sardonically
,
for
he
sees
his
fate
about
to
overtake
him
.
And
so
it
comes
to
pass
that
,
five
minutes
later
,
as
described
at
the
opening
of
this
chapter
,
he
is
seated
on
the
platform
with
"
Mrs.
Lirriper
's
Lodgings
"
before
him
,
rows
of
Provident
Matrons
'
eyes
fastened
expectantly
upon
him
,
and
horrid
qualms
of
strange
shyness
racing
over
him
.
Brown
has
indicated
by
a
dog's-ear
the
page
at
which
he
is
to
begin
;
so
he
is
spared
indecision
on
this
head
.
But
has
Brown
indicated
the
page
at
which
he
is
to
stop
?
He
is
gnawed
by
a
keen
anxiety
as
to
this
point
all
through
his
performance
.
It
is
hot
upon
the
platform
,
the
smell
of
tea
potent
,
and
the
naked
gas-jets
close
above
his
head
throw
an
ugly
yellow
glare
upon
his
book
.
Having
offered
his
prefatory
observations
in
the
manner
I
have
indicated
,
he
rushes
in
media
res
.
"
Girls
,
as
I
was
beginning
to
remark
,
are
one
of
your
first
and
your
lasting
troubles
,
being
like
your
teeth
,
which
begin
with
convulsions
,
and
never
cease
tormenting
you
from
the
time
you
cut
them
till
they
cut
you
,
and
then
you
do
not
want
to
part
with
them
,
which
seems
hard
,
but
we
must
all
succumb
,
or
buy
artificial
.
"
(
Do
his
ears
deceive
him
?
Is
there
already
a
slight
titter
?
Have
the
simile
of
the
convulsions
and
the
necessity
for
a
râtelier
already
struck
a
chord
in
the
matrons
'
breasts
?
)
"
And
,
even
where
you
get
a
will
,
nine
times
out
of
ten
you
get
a
dirty
face
with
it
,
and
naturally
lodgers
do
not
like
good
society
to
be
shown
in
with
a
smear
of
black
across
the
nose
,
or
a
smudgy
eyebrow
!
"
(
Is
he
managing
his
voice
alright
?
Is
he
mumbling
,
or
is
he
bellowing
?
He
rather
inclines
to
a
suspicion
of
the
latter
.
Why
did
not
they
laugh
at
the
"
smudgy
eyebrow
"
?
They
ought
to
have
done
so
,
and
he
had
paused
to
give
them
the
opportunity
.
Perhaps
it
is
among
them
too
familiar
a
phenomenon
to
provoke
mirth
.
)
"
Where
they
pick
the
black
up
is
a
mystery
I
cannot
solve
,
as
in
the
case
of
the
willingest
girl
that
ever
came
into
a
house
,
half-starved
,
poor
thing
;
a
girl
so
willing
that
I
called
her
'
Willing
Sophy
;
'
down
upon
her
knees
scrubbing
early
and
late
,
and
ever
cheerful
,
but
always
with
a
black
face
.
And
I
says
to
Sophy
,
'
Now
,
Sophy
,
my
good
girl
,
have
a
regular
day
for
your
stoves
,
and
do
not
brush
your
hair
with
the
bottoms
of
the
saucepans
,
and
do
not
meddle
with
the
snuffs
of
the
candles
,
and
it
stands
to
reason
that
it
cannot
be
.
'
"
(
Ah
!
what
welcome
sound
is
this
?
"
Willing
Sophy
"
has
produced
an
undoubted
giggle
,
which
Burgoyne
hears
spreading
and
widening
through
the
room
.
Heartened
by
this
indication
,
he
goes
on
in
a
more
emphatic
and
hilarious
voice
:
)
"
Yet
there
it
was
,
and
always
on
her
nose
,
which
,
turning
up
,
and
being
broad
at
the
end
,
seemed
to
boast
of
it
,
and
caused
warning
from
a
steady
gentleman
,
an
excellent
lodger
,
with
breakfast
by
the
week
.
"
There
can
be
no
mistake
about
it
now
;
the
giggle
has
changed
into
a
universal
resonant
laugh
,
which
goes
on
swelling
and
rising
,
until
,
in
the
final
roar
of
approbation
which
greets
the
concluding
paragraph
,
the
reader
's
voice
is
drowned
.
The
matrons
have
all
along
been
ready
to
be
amused
;
it
is
only
that
,
owing
to
the
gravity
of
his
face
and
solemnity
of
his
manner
,
it
was
some
time
before
they
recognised
that
his
intention
was
comic
.
As
soon
as
they
do
so
,
they
reward
that
intention
with
more
than
adequate
mirth
.
Burgoyne
has
reached
the
second
dog's-ear
,
that
dog's-ear
which
his
eye
has
been
earnestly
searching
for
throughout
.
His
task
then
is
ended
.
He
heaves
a
deep
sigh
of
relief
,
and
,
with
a
reflection
that
,
after
all
,
he
is
glad
he
was
obliging
,
is
preparing
to
shut
the
volume
,
when
he
feels
the
inevitable
Brown
's
hand
on
his
shoulder
,
and
his
husky
voice
in
his
ear
.
"
Capital
!
you
got
on
capitally
!
Could
not
be
better
;
but
you
will
not
mind
going
on
a
little
longer
,
will
you
?
You
have
only
read
for
ten
minutes
.
I
want
you
to
try
something
different
this
time
—
a
little
pathos
,
for
a
change
.
I
have
marked
the
page
.
Here
!
"
What
is
there
to
do
but
acquiesce
?
Burgoyne
,
complying
,
finds
himself
at
once
in
the
middle
of
a
melancholy
tale
of
a
poor
young
woman
left
ruined
and
deserted
in
Mrs.
Lirriper
's
Lodgings
,
and
only
rescued
from
suicide
by
the
efforts
of
that
good
lady
,
who
,
however
,
is
unable
to
save
her
from
a
tragic
and
premature
death
.
The
reader
has
reached
the
point
at
which
Mrs.
Lirriper
has
met
the
poor
creature
on
her
way
to
the
river
.
"
'
Mrs
.
Edson
,
I
says
,
my
dear
,
take
care
!
However
,
did
you
lose
your
way
,
and
stumble
in
a
dangerous
place
like
this
?
No
wonder
you
're
lost
,
I
'm
sure
.
'
"
(
What
is
this
sound
?
Is
it
possible
that
the
giggle
is
rising
again
?
the
giggle
which
he
was
so
glad
to
welcome
a
little
while
ago
,
but
which
is
so
disastrously
out
of
place
here
.
He
redoubles
his
efforts
to
put
an
unmistakably
serious
and
pathetic
tone
into
his
voice
.
)
"
She
was
all
in
a
shiver
,
and
she
so
continued
till
I
laid
her
on
her
own
bed
,
and
up
to
the
early
morning
she
held
me
by
the
hand
and
moaned
,
and
moaned
,
'
Oh
,
wicked
,
wicked
,
wicked
!
—
--
'
"
What
can
the
Provident
Matrons
be
made
of
?
They
are
laughing
unrestrainedly
.
Too
late
Burgoyne
realizes
that
he
had
not
made
it
sufficiently
clear
that
his
intention
is
no
longer
comic
.
The
idea
of
his
being
a
funny
man
has
so
firmly
rooted
itself
in
his
hearers
'
minds
,
that
nothing
can
now
dislodge
it
.
Such
being
the
case
,
he
feels
that
the
best
thing
he
can
do
is
to
reach
the
end
as
quickly
as
possible
.
He
begins
to
read
very
fast
,
which
is
taken
for
a
new
stroke
of
facetiousness
,
the
result
of
which
is
that
the
last
sigh
of
the
poor
young
would-be
suicide
is
drowned
in
a
storm
of
hilarity
even
heartier
and
more
prolonged
than
that
which
greeted
"
Willing
Sophy
's
"
smudged
nose
.
In
much
confusion
,
greatly
abashed
by
the
honours
so
mistakenly
heaped
upon
him
,
Burgoyne
hastily
leaves
the
platform
.
Twenty
thousand
Browns
shall
not
keep
him
there
!
CHAPTER
II
.
"
Tell
me
now
in
what
hidden
way
is
Lady
Flora
the
lovely
Roman
?
Where
is
Hipparchia
,
and
where
is
Thais
?
Neither
of
them
the
fairer
woman
.
Where
is
Echo
beheld
of
no
one
,
Only
heard
on
river
and
mere
?
She
whose
beauty
was
more
than
human
,
But
where
are
the
snows
of
yester-year
?
"
"
There
is
no
reason
why
we
should
not
go
home
now
;
are
you
ready
?
"
cries
Brown
,
bustling
up
to
his
friend
,
who
has
not
waited
for
this
question
to
make
straight
,
as
the
needle
to
the
pole
,
for
the
corner
where
the
collected
umbrellas
stand
in
their
little
area
of
lake
.
Burgoyne
would
probably
have
laughed
at
the
unconscious
irony
of
this
inquiry
if
he
had
heard
it
;
but
he
has
not
,
his
attention
being
otherwise
directed
.
On
the
same
umbrella
quest
as
himself
,
being
helped
on
with
her
mackintosh
by
one
of
the
two
men
who
had
accompanied
her
,
a
pepper-and-salt-haired
,
sturdy
gentleman
of
an
obviously
unacademic
cut
,
is
the
lady
whose
face
had
flashed
upon
him
with
that
puzzling
sense
of
unfamiliar
familiarity
.
Since
they
are
now
in
close
proximity
,
and
both
employed
alike
in
struggling
into
their
wraps
,
there
is
nothing
more
natural
than
that
she
should
turn
her
eyes
full
upon
him
.
They
are
very
fine
eyes
,
though
far
from
young
ones
.
Is
it
a
trick
of
his
imagination
,
or
does
he
see
a
look
of
half-recognition
dawn
in
them
,
such
as
must
have
been
born
in
his
own
when
they
first
alighted
on
her
?
At
all
events
,
if
there
is
such
a
look
of
half-recognition
in
her
eyes
,
she
is
determined
that
it
shall
not
have
a
chance
of
becoming
a
whole
one
.
Either
he
is
mistaken
,
and
she
has
not
recognised
him
,
or
she
is
determined
not
to
acknowledge
the
acquaintance
,
for
she
looks
away
again
at
once
,
nor
does
she
throw
another
glance
in
his
direction
.
Indeed
,
it
seems
to
him
that
she
hurries
on
her
preparations
with
added
speed
,
and
walks
out
into
the
night
accompanied
by
her
double
escort
before
him
.
The
weather
has
changed
,
and
for
the
better
.
The
rollicking
wind
has
lulled
,
the
pattering
rain
ceased
.
Between
the
ragged
,
black
cloud-sheets
star-points
shine
,
and
a
shimmering
moon
shows
her
wet
face
reflected
in
the
puddles
.
Talk
,
which
had
been
impossible
on
their
way
to
the
meeting
,
is
not
only
possible
but
easy
now
,
and
Brown
is
evidently
greatly
inclined
for
it
.
Burgoyne
,
on
the
other
hand
,
had
never
felt
more
disinclined
.
It
is
not
so
much
that
he
is
out
of
humour
with
his
tiresome
friend
,
though
he
is
that
too
,
as
that
his
whole
mind
is
centred
on
making
his
memory
give
up
the
secret
of
that
face
that
has
come
back
to
him
out
of
some
vague
cavern
of
his
past
.
Who
is
the
woman
whom
he
knows
,
and
who
knows
him
(
for
on
reflection
he
is
sure
that
that
look
of
hers
was
one
of
half
—
of
more
than
half
—
recognition
)
,
and
yet
whose
place
in
his
history
,
whose
very
name
,
he
seeks
so
vainly
?
She
does
not
belong
to
his
Oxford
days
,
as
he
has
already
ascertained
.
He
has
learnt
from
Brown
that
she
does
not
belong
to
the
Oxford
of
to-day
,
being
apparently
a
stranger
,
and
,
with
her
husband
,
a
visitor
to
the
Warden
of
—
—
College
,
in
whose
company
they
had
arrived
.
He
explores
the
succeeding
years
of
his
life
.
In
vain
;
she
has
no
place
there
;
in
vain
he
dives
and
plunges
into
the
sea
of
his
memory
;
he
cannot
fish
up
the
pearl
he
seeks
.
He
must
hark
back
to
earlier
days
—
his
school-time
,
the
six
months
he
spent
in
Devonshire
with
a
coach
before
he
came
up
to
New
.
Ah
!
he
has
it
—
he
has
it
at
last
!
just
as
they
have
reached
Brown
's
door
,
while
he
is
fumbling
with
his
latch-key
for
the
keyhole
,
imprecating
the
moon
for
withdrawing
her
shining
at
the
very
instant
he
most
needs
her
,
Burgoyne
has
come
up
with
the
shy
object
of
his
chase
.
It
is
conjured
back
into
his
mind
by
the
word
Devonshire
.
"
I
have
it
,
"
he
says
to
himself
;
"
her
hair
has
turned
white
,
that
was
why
I
did
not
recognise
her
;
it
used
to
be
raven-black
.
But
it
is
she
—
of
course
it
is
she
!
To
think
of
my
not
knowing
her
again
!
Of
course
it
is
Mrs.
Le
Marchant
.
"
What
a
door
into
the
distance
that
name
has
opened
!
—
a
door
through
which
he
passes
into
a
Devonshire
garden
,
and
romps
with
rose-faced
Devonshire
children
.
The
very
names
of
those
children
are
coming
back
to
him
.
Tom
and
Charles
,
those
were
the
schoolboys
;
Rose
and
Miriam
,
and
—
Elizabeth
.
He
recalls
—
absurd
trick
of
freakish
memory
—
those
children
's
pets
.
Tom
and
Charles
had
guinea-pigs
;
Miriam
had
a
white
rat
;
Rose
—
what
had
Rose
?
Rose
must
have
had
something
;
and
Elizabeth
had
a
kangaroo
.
Elizabeth
's
kangaroo
was
short-lived
,
poor
beast
,
and
died
about
hay-time
;
the
guinea-pigs
and
the
white
rat
have
been
dead
too
for
ages
now
,
of
course
.
And
are
Tom
and
Charles
,
and
Rose
and
Miriam
,
and
bright
Elizabeth
dead
also
?
Absurd
!
Why
should
they
be
?
Nothing
more
unlikely
!
Why
,
it
is
only
ten
years
ago
,
after
all
.
He
is
roused
from
his
meditations
by
Brown
's
voice
,
to
find
himself
in
Brown
's
study
,
where
its
owner
is
filling
himself
a
pipe
,
and
festally
offering
him
whisky-and-water
.
But
it
is
only
an
abstracted
attention
that
Burgoyne
lends
,
either
to
the
whisky
or
the
whisky
's
master
;
and
his
answers
are
sometimes
inattentively
beside
the
mark
,
to
talk
,
which
indeed
is
not
without
some
likeness
to
the
boasted
exploits
in
Clement
's
Inn
,
and
the
affectionate
inquiries
after
Jane
Nightwork
,
of
a
more
famous
fool
than
he
.
It
is
a
relief
to
the
guest
when
,
earlier
than
he
had
expected
—
a
blessing
he
,
no
doubt
,
owes
to
Mrs.
Brown
—
his
host
breaks
up
the
séance
,
and
he
is
free
to
retire
to
his
own
room
.
At
once
he
is
back
in
that
Devonshire
garden
,
he
is
there
almost
all
night
,
between
sleep
and
wake
.
It
is
strange
that
persons
and
circumstances
banished
from
his
memory
for
ten
long
years
should
rush
back
with
such
tyrannous
insistence
now
.
Such
silly
recollected
trifles
crowd
back
upon
his
mind
.
The
day
on
which
Tom
nearly
choked
himself
by
swallowing
a
barley
beard
;
the
day
on
which
the
lop-eared
rabbit
littered
—
ah
,
rabbits
,
of
course
!
those
were
what
Rose
had
!
—
the
day
on
which
Tom
pushed
Miriam
into
the
moat
,
and
Elizabeth
fell
in
,
too
,
in
trying
to
fish
her
out
.
Elizabeth
,
the
eldest
,
the
almost
grown-up
one
,
embarrassed
by
her
newly
lengthened
petticoats
,
so
harassing
at
cricket
,
in
races
,
in
climbing
apple-trees
.
Elizabeth
was
sixteen
;
he
remembers
the
fact
,
because
her
birthday
had
fallen
two
days
before
his
own
departure
.
He
had
given
her
a
gold
thimble
set
with
turquoises
upon
the
occasion
;
it
was
not
a
surprise
,
because
he
recalls
measuring
her
finger
for
the
size
.
He
can
see
that
small
middle
finger
now
.
Elizabeth
must
now
be
twenty-six
years
of
age
.
Where
is
she
?
What
is
she
—
maid
,
wife
,
or
widow
?
And
why
has
Mrs.
Le
Marchant
's
hair
turned
snow-white
?
Had
it
been
merely
gray
he
would
not
have
complained
,
though
he
would
have
deplored
the
loss
of
the
fine
smooth
inky
sweep
he
remembers
.
She
has
a
fair
right
to
be
gray
;
Mrs.
Le
Marchant
must
be
about
forty-six
or
forty-seven
,
bien
sonné
.
But
white
,
snow-white
—
the
hue
that
one
connects
with
a
venerable
extremity
of
age
.
Can
it
be
bleached
?
He
has
heard
of
women
bleaching
their
hair
;
but
not
Mrs.
Le
Marchant
,
not
the
Mrs.
Le
Marchant
he
remembers
.
She
would
have
been
as
incapable
of
bleach
as
of
dye
.
Then
why
is
she
snow-haired
?
Because
Providence
has
so
willed
it
is
the
obvious
answer
.
But
somehow
Burgoyne
cannot
bring
himself
to
believe
that
she
has
come
fairly
by
that
white
head
.
With
the
morning
light
the
might
of
the
Devonshire
memories
grows
weaker
;
and
,
as
the
day
advances
,
the
Oxford
ones
resume
their
sway
.
How
can
it
be
otherwise
,
when
all
day
long
he
strays
among
the
unaltered
buildings
in
the
sweet
sedate
college
gardens
,
down
the
familiar
"
High
,
"
where
,
six
years
ago
,
he
could
not
take
two
steps
without
being
hailed
by
a
jolly
fresh
voice
,
claiming
his
company
for
some
new
pleasure
;
but
where
now
he
walks
ungreeted
,
where
the
smooth-faced
boys
he
meets
,
and
who
strike
him
as
so
much
more
boyish
than
his
own
contemporaries
had
done
,
pass
him
by
indifferently
,
unknown
to
the
whole
two
thousand
as
he
is
.
He
feels
a
sort
of
irrational
anger
with
them
for
not
recognising
him
,
though
they
have
never
seen
him
before
.
Yes
,
there
is
no
place
where
a
man
is
so
quickly
superannuated
as
in
Oxford
.
He
is
saying
this
to
himself
all
day
,
is
saying
it
still
as
he
strolls
in
the
afternoon
down
Mesopotamia
,
to
fill
up
the
time
before
the
hour
for
college
chapel
.
Yes
,
there
is
no
place
where
men
so
soon
turn
into
ghosts
.
He
has
been
knocking
up
against
them
all
day
at
every
street-corner
;
they
have
looked
out
at
him
from
every
gray
window
in
the
Quad
at
New
—
jovial
,
athletic
young
ghosts
,
so
much
painfuller
to
meet
than
rusty
,
century-worn
old
ones
.
They
are
rather
less
plentiful
in
Mesopotamia
than
elsewhere
;
perhaps
,
because
in
his
day
,
as
now
,
Mesopotamia
on
Sundays
was
given
over
to
the
mechanic
and
the
perambulator
.
Oh
,
that
Heaven
would
put
it
into
the
head
of
some
Chancellor
of
the
Exchequer
to
lay
a
swingeing
tax
upon
that
all-accursed
vehicle
!
But
not
even
mechanic
and
perambulator
can
hinder
Mesopotamia
from
being
fair
on
a
fine
February
day
,
when
the
beautiful
floods
are
out
,
the
floods
that
the
Thames
Conservators
and
the
Oxford
authorities
have
combined
to
put
down
,
as
they
have
most
other
beautiful
things
within
their
reach
.
But
they
have
not
yet
quite
succeeded
.
To-day
,
for
instance
,
the
floods
are
out
in
might
.
Burgoyne
is
pacing
along
a
brown
walk
,
like
a
raised
causeway
,
with
a
sheet
of
white
water
on
either
hand
,
rolling
strong
ripples
to
the
bank
.
Gnarled
willows
stand
islanded
in
the
coldly
argent
water
.
A
blackbird
is
flying
out
of
the
bushes
,
with
a
surprised
look
at
finding
himself
turned
into
a
sea-bird
.
No
sun
;
an
even
sweep
of
dull
silver
to
right
and
left
.
No
sun
;
and
yet
as
he
looks
,
after
days
of
rain
,
the
"
grand
décorateur
,
"
as
someone
happily
called
him
,
rides
out
in
royalty
on
a
cleared
sky-field
,
turning
the
whole
drenched
country
into
mother-of-pearl
—
a
sheet
of
opal
stretched
across
the
drowned
meadows
;
the
distance
opal
too
,
a
delicate
,
dainty
,
evanescent
loveliness
snatched
from
the
ugly
brown
jaws
of
winter
.
Burgoyne
is
leaning
over
the
wooden
bridge
beneath
which
,
in
its
normal
state
,
the
water
of
the
lasher
rushes
down
impetuously
;
but
it
is
now
raised
to
such
a
height
that
it
lies
level
,
almost
flush
with
the
planking
.
He
is
staring
across
the
iridescent
water-plain
to
where
,
in
the
poetic
atmosphere
of
sun
and
mist
,
dome
,
and
schools
and
soaring
spires
stand
etherealized
.
"
Dear
old
place
!
"
he
says
,
under
his
breath
,
"
everybody
is
dead
;
and
I
am
dead
;
and
Brown
is
deader
than
anyone
.
I
am
glad
that
you
,
at
least
,
are
still
alive
!
"
Are
these
more
ghosts
coming
round
the
corner
?
A
man
and
a
woman
ghost
strolling
along
,
and
looking
about
them
as
strangers
look
.
When
they
are
within
a
pace
or
two
of
him
the
woman
says
something
—
something
about
the
floods
—
to
her
companion
,
and
at
the
sound
Burgoyne
starts
.
"
She
did
not
speak
last
night
;
if
she
had
spoken
I
should
have
known
her
at
once
.
She
always
had
such
a
sweet
voice
.
"
He
raises
his
arms
from
the
bridge-top
,
and
,
turning
,
meets
them
face
to
face
,
eye
to
eye
,
and
in
an
instant
he
has
seen
that
both
recognise
him
.
At
the
same
instant
he
is
aware
of
a
simultaneous
inclination
on
the
part
of
man
and
wife
to
avert
their
heads
,
and
pass
him
without
claiming
his
acquaintance
.
Perhaps
,
if
he
had
had
time
to
reflect
,
he
would
have
allowed
them
to
do
so
,
but
the
impulse
of
the
moment
forbids
it
.
Why
should
they
wish
to
cut
him
?
What
has
he
done
to
deserve
it
?
Ten
years
ago
,
they
were
his
very
good
friends
,
and
he
was
the
familiar
comrade
of
their
children
,
the
daily
guest
at
their
table
.
What
has
the
unavoidable
lapse
of
those
years
done
to
make
him
less
fit
for
their
company
at
twenty-nine
than
he
was
at
nineteen
?
There
must
be
some
misconception
,
which
a
moment
will
set
right
.
"
I
am
afraid
that
you
do
not
remember
me
,
Mrs.
Le
Marchant
,
"
he
says
,
lifting
his
hat
.
This
is
not
quite
true
,
as
he
is
perfectly
convinced
that
they
are
as
much
aware
of
his
identity
as
he
is
of
theirs
.
But
what
formula
has
a
man
to
employ
in
such
a
case
?
They
both
look
back
at
him
with
a
sort
of
irresolution
.
To
his
astonishment
,
in
their
eyes
is
a
velleity
of
flight
,
but
apparently
she
—
women
's
minds
moving
more
quickly
than
men
's
—
is
the
first
to
realize
that
flight
is
out
of
the
question
.
"
I
am
sure
that
you
have
no
intention
of
cutting
me
,
"
Jim
goes
on
,
with
a
smile
,
seeing
that
she
is
apparently
struggling
with
a
difficulty
in
utterance
;
"
at
least
,
you
must
be
very
much
changed
from
what
you
were
ten
years
ago
if
you
have
.
My
name
is
—
—
"
"
I
know
—
I
know
!
"
she
interrupts
,
finding
speech
at
last
—
speech
low
and
hurried
.
"
I
remember
perfectly
.
You
are
Mr.
Burgoyne
.
"
Her
confusion
—
she
used
always
to
be
such
a
placid
,
even-mannered
woman
—
is
so
patent
,
born
of
whatever
unaccountable
feeling
it
may
be
,
that
he
now
heartily
wishes
he
had
let
the
poor
woman
pass
unmolested
.
But
such
repentance
is
too
late
.
He
has
arrested
her
;
she
is
standing
on
the
gravel
path
before
him
,
and
though
he
feels
that
her
extraordinary
shyness
—
mauvaise
honte
,
whatever
it
may
be
—
has
infected
himself
,
he
must
make
some
further
remark
to
her
.
Nothing
better
occurs
to
him
than
the
obvious
one
:
"
It
is
a
long
time
—
it
is
ten
years
since
we
met
.
"
"
Yes
,
ten
years
;
it
must
be
quite
ten
years
,
"
she
assents
,
evidently
making
a
great
effort
to
regain
composure
.
She
does
not
feign
the
slightest
pleasure
in
the
meeting
,
and
Burgoyne
feels
that
the
one
thought
that
occupies
her
mind
is
how
she
can
soonest
end
it
.
But
his
roused
curiosity
,
together
with
the
difficulty
of
parting
without
further
observation
after
having
forced
his
presence
upon
them
,
combine
to
prevent
her
succeeding
.
"
And
how
is
the
Moat
?
"
he
asks
,
reflecting
that
this
,
at
least
,
is
a
safe
question
;
a
brick
and
mortar
house
,
at
all
events
,
cannot
be
dead
.
"
How
is
Devonshire
?
"
Apparently
it
is
not
so
harmless
a
question
as
he
had
imagined
;
at
least
,
Mrs.
Le
Marchant
is
obviously
quite
incapable
of
answering
it
.
Her
husband
,
for
the
first
time
,
comes
to
her
rescue
.
"
The
Moat
is
let
,
"
he
says
,
in
a
dry
voice
;
"
we
have
left
Devonshire
a
long
while
—
nine
,
nine
and
a
half
years
ago
.
"
The
Moat
let
!
Judging
by
the
light
of
Burgoyne
's
recollections
,
it
would
have
seemed
less
surprising
to
him
to
hear
that
Windsor
Castle
had
been
turned
into
a
Joint
Stock
Company
Hotel
.
It
is
probably
,
then
,
some
money
trouble
that
has
turned
Mrs.
Le
Marchant
's
hair
white
—
snow
white
,
as
he
now
sees
it
to
be
.
But
no
;
he
rejects
the
explanation
as
insufficient
.
She
is
not
the
woman
to
have
taken
a
diminished
income
so
much
to
heart
.
Good
manners
forbid
him
to
ask
,
"
Why
is
the
Moat
let
?
"
so
all
that
he
says
is
,
"
Nine
and
a
half
years
ago
?
Why
,
that
must
have
been
very
soon
after
I
left
Devonshire
.
"
He
addresses
his
remark
involuntarily
rather
to
the
wife
than
the
husband
,
but
she
does
not
answer
it
.
Her
eyes
are
fixed
upon
the
bubbles
sailing
so
fast
upon
the
swollen
river
,
which
is
distinguishable
only
by
its
current
from
the
sameness
of
the
surrounding
water
.
A
lark
—
there
is
always
a
lark
in
Mesopotamia
—
a
tiny
,
strong-throated
singer
,
that
never
seems
to
have
to
stop
to
take
breath
,
fills
up
the
silence
,
shouting
somewhere
out
of
sight
among
the
black
clouds
,
in
and
out
of
which
the
uncertain
sun
is
plunging
.
Whether
of
a
moneyed
nature
or
not
,
there
is
evidently
something
very
unpleasant
connected
with
their
leaving
their
native
county
and
their
immemorial
home
,
so
he
had
better
get
away
from
the
subject
as
fast
as
possible
.
"
Anyhow
,
"
he
says
,
with
a
rather
nervous
smile
,
"
I
hope
that
the
world
has
been
treating
you
kindly
—
that
things
have
gone
well
with
you
since
those
dear
old
days
when
you
were
so
good
to
me
.
"
There
is
an
instant
's
pause
—
perhaps
he
would
not
have
noticed
it
had
not
his
suspicions
been
already
roused
—
before
the
husband
,
again
taking
upon
him
the
task
of
replying
,
answers
,
with
a
sort
of
laboured
carelessness
:
"
Oh
,
yes
,
thanks
;
we
do
not
complain
.
It
has
not
been
a
very
rosy
time
for
landlords
lately
,
as
you
are
aware
.
"
"
And
you
?
"
cries
the
wife
,
striking
in
with
a
species
of
hurry
in
her
voice
—
a
hurry
due
,
as
his
instinct
tells
him
,
to
the
fact
of
her
fear
of
his
entering
into
more
detailed
inquiries
.
"
And
you
?
We
must
not
forget
you
.
Have
you
been
well
,
flourishing
,
all
this
long
time
?
Do
you
still
live
with
your
—
—
"
She
stops
abruptly
.
It
is
apparent
that
she
has
entirely
forgotten
what
was
the
species
of
relation
with
whom
he
lived
.
There
is
a
little
tinge
of
bitterness
in
his
heart
,
though
not
in
his
tone
,
as
he
supplies
the
missing
word
"
aunt
.
"
After
all
,
he
had
forgotten
her
name
;
why
should
not
she
forget
his
aunt
?
"
With
my
aunt
?
Well
,
I
never
exactly
lived
with
her
;
I
made
,
and
make
my
headquarters
there
when
I
am
in
England
,
which
is
not
very
often
.
I
have
been
a
rolling
stone
;
I
have
rolled
pretty
well
round
the
world
since
we
parted
.
"
They
do
not
care
in
the
least
where
he
has
rolled
,
nor
how
much
nor
how
little
moss
he
has
collected
in
the
process
.
They
are
only
thinking
how
they
can
best
get
rid
of
him
.
But
the
past
is
strong
upon
him
;
he
cannot
let
them
slide
out
of
his
life
again
for
another
ten
—
twenty
years
perhaps
,
without
finding
out
from
them
something
about
his
five
merry
playmates
.
His
inquiry
must
needs
be
a
vague
one
.
Who
dares
ask
specifically
after
this
or
that
man
,
woman
,
or
even
child
,
when
ten
years
have
rolled
their
tides
between
?
"
And
you
are
all
well
?
"
he
says
,
with
a
certain
wistfulness
lurking
in
the
indifferent
banal
phrase
.
"
Dear
me
,
what
a
jolly
party
we
used
to
be
!
I
suppose
that
—
that
they
are
all
out
in
the
world
now
?
"
His
eyes
are
fixed
apprehensively
upon
the
mother
of
those
young
comrades
,
to
whom
he
thus
cautiously
alludes
.
Perhaps
,
carefully
as
he
has
worded
his
question
,
he
may
have
touched
some
terrible
raw
.
Her
face
is
turned
aside
,
presenting
only
its
profile
to
him
,
but
she
answers
almost
at
once
:
"
Yes
;
we
are
all
scattered
now
.
Charlie
is
planting
oranges
in
Florida
—
he
does
not
mind
the
heat
;
you
know
he
always
said
no
weather
could
be
too
hot
for
him
;
and
Tom
has
an
ostrich
farm
in
Australia
;
and
Rose
has
been
married
two
years
—
she
has
a
dear
little
baby
;
and
Miriam
is
married
too
;
we
have
just
come
down
from
her
wedding
.
"
"
Miriam
married
!
"
repeats
Burgoyne
in
a
tone
of
wonder
.
"
Miriam
with
a
husband
instead
of
a
white
rat
!
"
The
mother
laughs
.
It
is
the
first
time
that
he
has
heard
her
laugh
,
and
she
used
to
laugh
so
often
.
"
I
think
she
likes
the
exchange
.
"
There
is
another
little
pause
,
again
filled
by
the
lark
's
crowding
notes
.
There
are
two
words
battering
against
the
gate
of
Burgoyne
's
lips
for
egress
—
two
words
that
he
dares
not
utter
.
"
And
Elizabeth
?
"
She
was
the
eldest
.
She
would
naturally
have
been
mentioned
first
;
but
neither
first
nor
last
is
there
any
speech
of
her
.
She
must
,
then
,
be
dead
—
dead
long
ago
,
too
;
for
there
is
no
trace
of
mourning
in
her
parents
'
dress
.
Elizabeth
is
dead
—
bright
Elizabeth
,
the
beauty
and
the
pet
!
Charles
Lamb
's
tender
lines
come
pensively
back
to
him
—
"
My
sprightly
neighbour
gone
before
To
that
unknown
and
silent
shore
,
Shall
we
not
meet
as
heretofore
,
Some
summer
morning
?
"
Is
it
only
fancy
that
he
sees
in
the
eye
of
Elizabeth
's
mother
a
dread
lest
he
shall
ask
tidings
of
her
,
as
she
says
,
hastily
,
and
with
a
smile
,
"
Well
,
I
am
afraid
we
must
be
going
;
it
has
been
very
pleasant
meeting
you
again
,
but
I
am
afraid
that
the
Warden
will
be
expecting
us
"
?
She
adds
to
her
parting
hand-shake
no
wish
for
a
repetition
of
that
meeting
,
and
he
watches
them
down
the
Willow
Walk
with
a
sort
of
sadness
in
his
heart
.
"
Elizabeth
is
dead
!
Elizabeth
is
undoubtedly
dead
!
"
CHAPTER
III
.
"
Do
you
know
that
Willy
has
been
sent
down
again
?
"
Six
weeks
have
passed
since
Burgoyne
's
eye
followed
his
quondam
friends
down
Mesopotamia
,
and
he
is
not
in
Oxford
now
.
He
left
it
,
indeed
,
twenty-four
hours
after
the
rencounter
described
;
left
it
with
something
of
a
determination
never
to
revisit
it
.
This
,
too
,
in
spite
of
the
good
Brown
's
vociferously
reiterated
invitation
to
him
to
run
down
for
another
Sunday
,
whenever
he
should
feel
inclined
,
and
which
he
accepted
civilly
,
knowing
that
he
should
never
feel
inclined
.
At
the
present
moment
he
is
pacing
up
and
down
the
still
wintry
,
north-windswept
walks
of
a
country-house
garden
in
Shropshire
,
in
the
company
of
a
lady
whom
he
has
known
as
long
as
he
can
remember
;
a
lady
who
would
have
been
a
friend
of
circumstance
,
even
if
she
had
not
been
one
of
choice
,
since
her
home
has
been
in
the
immediate
neighbourhood
of
the
only
one
he
has
ever
had
;
a
lady
whose
friendship
he
has
tested
by
letters
on
thin
paper
from
New
Guinea
and
Central
Africa
all
about
himself
;
at
whose
feet
he
has
laid
on
his
return
more
heads
,
and
skins
,
and
claws
than
she
has
well
known
what
to
do
with
;
whose
husband
he
thought
a
very
good
fellow
,
and
to
whom
he
wrote
a
very
nice
letter
on
that
husband
's
death
;
lastly
,
concerning
whose
only
child
has
been
made
the
communication
that
opens
this
chapter
—
"
Do
you
know
that
Willy
has
been
sent
down
again
?
"
"
I
did
not
know
it
;
but
I
am
very
sorry
now
that
I
do
know
.
"
"
You
need
not
be
,
"
returns
she
cheerfully
;
"
he
does
not
mind
it
in
the
least
;
indeed
,
happily
for
him
,
most
of
his
friends
have
been
sent
down
too
.
"
"
What
has
he
been
doing
this
time
?
Putting
the
porter
into
the
fountain
?
or
screwing
up
the
Dean
?
or
what
other
playful
little
pleasantry
?
"
"
You
need
not
speak
in
that
nasty
sarcastic
voice
,
"
says
she
,
half
laughing
and
half
vexed
.
"
After
all
,
you
must
know
that
young
men
will
be
young
men
,
or
,
at
least
,
if
you
do
not
know
it
now
,
you
must
have
known
it
once
.
"
"
If
you
take
that
tone
to
me
,
"
retorts
Burgoyne
,
smiling
,
"
I
shall
have
to
souse
your
gardener
in
your
fountain
,
to
prove
my
juvenility
;
but
come
,
what
has
he
done
?
"
"
Absolutely
nothing
,
as
far
as
I
can
make
out
,
"
replies
she
,
spreading
out
her
hands
as
if
to
emphasize
the
statement
.
"
Do
you
mean
to
say
that
the
authorities
have
sent
him
down
de
gaieté
de
cœur
,
without
any
provocation
at
all
?
"
asks
Burgoyne
,
in
a
tone
out
of
which
he
is
unable
to
keep
a
shade
of
incredulity
.
"
I
mean
to
say
,
"
replies
she
,
nettled
,
"
that
he
had
a
few
men
to
supper
,
and
I
suppose
they
were
making
a
little
noise
;
did
you
ever
in
your
day
hear
of
an
undergraduate
supper
where
there
was
not
noise
?
However
,
in
this
case
,
from
what
he
tells
me
,
Willy
was
taking
positively
no
part
in
it
.
"
"
He
was
sitting
in
a
corner
,
with
cotton-wool
in
his
ears
,
reading
Aristotle
,
"
suggests
Burgoyne
teasingly
.
"
And
it
seems
,
"
continued
she
,
not
deigning
to
notice
the
interruption
,
"
that
the
Proctor
came
in
,
and
was
very
rude
,
and
Willy
was
told
to
go
to
the
Dean
next
morning
,
and
he
either
was
a
little
late
,
or
mistook
the
hour
,
or
some
trifle
of
that
sort
;
and
when
he
did
go
he
was
told
that
he
was
sent
down
.
However
"
—
with
some
triumph
in
her
voice
—
"
it
did
not
matter
in
the
least
—
he
did
not
mind
;
in
fact
,
he
was
rather
glad
,
as
he
has
long
wanted
to
go
to
Italy
in
the
spring
.
"
"
To
Italy
?
Then
perhaps
we
shall
meet
;
I
too
am
going
to
Italy
.
"
"
Are
you
?
"
she
says
.
"
Why
should
you
go
to
Italy
?
There
is
nothing
to
kill
there
,
is
there
?
Is
not
it
at
Naples
that
they
go
out
in
full
chasseur
uniform
to
shoot
tomtits
?
"
Which
speech
is
her
revenge
for
his
sarcasms
upon
her
son
.
But
Burgoyne
's
face
has
taken
on
a
rather
careworn
look
;
and
her
little
arrow
misses
its
mark
.
"
You
see
,
Amelia
is
at
Florence
,
"
he
says
explanatorily
;
"
her
father
,
Mr.
Wilson
,
had
a
clergyman
's
throat
in
the
autumn
,
and
was
obliged
to
give
up
duty
,
so
they
all
went
abroad
.
They
have
been
abroad
all
the
winter
;
you
know
that
I
have
not
seen
her
since
I
came
back
from
the
Rockies
.
"
They
are
now
walking
in
a
winding
shrubbery
path
,
whose
laurels
protect
them
from
the
pinching
wind
.
They
have
turned
several
corners
,
and
traversed
half
a
quarter
of
a
mile
before
either
again
breaks
silence
.
It
is
the
lady
who
does
so
finally
.
"
Jim
,
how
long
have
you
been
engaged
to
Amelia
?
"
There
is
a
sigh
mixed
with
his
answer
.
"
Eight
years
—
eight
years
this
next
June
;
it
was
the
second
summer
term
after
I
came
up
.
"
"
And
as
far
as
you
can
see
,
you
are
likely
to
be
engaged
for
another
eight
years
?
"
"
As
far
as
I
can
see
—
yes
;
but
then
I
cannot
see
far
.
"
Perhaps
his
companion
is
a
fanciful
woman
;
but
she
notices
that
this
time
he
does
not
sigh
.
"
Poor
Amelia
!
"
she
says
,
half
under
her
breath
.
"
Poor
Amelia
!
"
repeats
he
sharply
;
"
why
poor
?
—
for
being
engaged
to
me
?
You
are
not
very
complimentary
,
Mrs.
Byng
.
"
She
looks
up
friendlily
at
him
.
"
For
being
engaged
to
you
,
or
being
only
engaged
to
you
?
—
which
?
I
leave
you
a
choice
of
interpretation
.
"
But
either
Jim
is
too
ruffled
by
the
pity
expressed
in
her
tone
towards
his
betrothed
,
or
her
remarks
have
provoked
in
him
a
train
of
thought
which
does
not
tend
towards
loquacity
.
The
loud
rooks
,
balancing
themselves
on
improbably
small
twigs
above
their
heads
,
and
,
hoarsely
melodious
,
calling
out
their
airy
vernal
news
to
each
other
,
make
for
some
time
the
only
sound
that
breaks
the
silence
of
the
cold
spring
afternoon
.
It
is
again
Mrs.
Byng
who
at
last
infringes
it
.
"
If
you
and
Willy
are
both
going
to
Italy
,
why
should
not
you
go
together
?
"
Jim
does
not
immediately
answer
;
the
project
is
sprung
upon
him
with
such
suddenness
that
he
does
not
at
once
know
whether
it
is
agreeable
to
him
or
the
reverse
.
"
You
do
not
like
the
idea
?
"
continues
the
mother
,
trying
,
not
very
successfully
,
to
keep
out
of
her
tone
the
surprise
she
feels
at
his
not
having
jumped
at
a
plan
so
obviously
to
his
own
advantage
.
"
I
did
not
say
so
.
I
did
not
even
think
so
.
"
"
Willy
is
an
ideal
fellow-traveller
,
"
says
she
,
"
excepting
in
the
matter
of
punctuality
;
I
warn
you
"
—
laughing
—
"
that
you
would
always
have
to
drag
him
out
of
bed
.
"
"
But
,
"
suggests
Jim
slowly
,
"
even
supposing
that
I
embraced
your
design
with
the
warmth
which
I
see
you
think
it
deserves
,
how
can
you
tell
that
it
would
meet
with
his
approbation
?
He
has
probably
made
up
a
party
with
some
of
the
other
innocent
victims
of
a
corrupt
University
system
.
"
"
No
,
he
has
not
;
the
friend
with
whom
he
was
to
have
gone
has
thrown
him
over
;
at
least
,
poor
man
,
that
is
hardly
the
way
to
express
it
,
for
he
has
broken
his
leg
;
but
anyhow
he
is
hors
de
combat
.
If
you
went
with
Willy
,
"
she
adds
,
after
a
pause
,
and
with
a
rather
wistful
air
,
"
I
should
be
sure
of
knowing
if
anything
went
wrong
.
"
"
I
am
to
dry-nurse
him
,
in
fact
,
only
I
stipulate
that
,
if
he
brings
you
home
a
Contadina
daughter-in-law
,
or
'
commits
himself
with
a
countess
,
'
like
the
commercial
gentleman
at
Todgers
's
,
you
are
not
to
hold
me
responsible
.
"
And
so
it
came
to
pass
that
a
fortnight
later
,
while
April
is
still
young
,
Burgoyne
,
en
route
to
his
Amelia
,
is
standing
at
a
window
of
the
Hotel
de
Gênes
at
Genoa
,
noisiest
of
hotels
,
though
,
to
be
sure
,
that
is
its
only
fault
.
He
is
looking
out
at
the
gay
market
that
is
held
in
the
piazza
below
—
the
gay
market
that
is
over
and
gone
by
nine
o'clock
.
It
seems
odd
that
so
many
women
,
so
many
umbrellas
,
so
many
baskets
,
so
many
oranges
and
lemons
—
each
lemon
with
a
glossy
green
leaf
still
adhering
to
its
inch
of
stalk
—
so
many
fresh
vegetables
can
be
swept
away
in
so
short
a
time
.
But
they
are
;
all
the
gay
kerchiefs
are
fled
,
and
have
been
replaced
by
a
row
of
fiacres
with
sad
droop-headed
horses
,
a
good
hour
before
Byng
appears
—
appears
radiantly
well
washed
and
apologetic
.
"
How
many
morning
chapels
did
you
attend
last
term
?
"
asks
Burgoyne
with
some
dryness
.
"
It
is
a
vile
habit
,
"
replies
the
other
sweetly
,
sitting
down
at
a
little
table
,
and
unfolding
his
breakfast
napkin
.
"
I
do
not
mean
going
to
chapel
,
but
being
so
late
;
however
,
I
really
am
improving
.
I
am
a
quarter
of
an
hour
—
twenty
minutes
earlier
than
I
was
yesterday
,
and
,
thank
God
,
we
have
no
train
to
catch
to-day
.
"
Burgoyne
is
rather
inclined
to
echo
the
thanksgiving
a
little
later
in
the
day
,
as
they
stroll
with
the
pleasant
vagueness
with
which
one
strays
about
a
little-known
foreign
town
,
not
exactly
knowing
whither
,
through
the
streets
of
the
queenly
city
,
with
which
neither
of
them
has
much
acquaintance
;
Byng
's
twenty-two
years
of
school
and
college
,
of
cricket
,
and
grouse
,
and
stalking
,
having
left
not
much
margin
for
aught
else
;
and
Burgoyne
being
in
the
case
of
some
widely-wandered
shots
and
explorers
,
to
whom
the
Nyanza
Lake
and
the
Australian
Bush
are
more
familiar
than
Giotto
's
Campanile
or
the
Lagoons
.
There
is
a
grayish-looking
English
sky
,
with
now
and
then
little
sprays
of
rain
,
and
now
and
then
flashes
of
warm
sun
.
Neither
of
the
young
men
knows
much
Italian
,
and
such
as
they
possess
they
are
ashamed
to
air
before
each
other
in
asking
their
way
,
so
they
wander
wherever
chance
or
fancy
leads
them
.
They
look
curiously
into
churches
,
they
walk
down
deep
narrow
streets
,
whose
houses
have
for
three
centuries
been
threatening
to
embrace
each
other
across
the
strait
sky
strip
far
,
far
above
their
heads
.
They
glance
at
palace-fronts
,
and
wonder
at
the
sculptured
portals
where
fresco
and
fruit
garland
and
fine
tracery
speak
of
a
time
at
more
leisure
for
delicate
work
that
has
no
end
but
beauty
,
than
this
breathless
one
.
Everywhere
in
the
gardens
they
see
budding
green
,
untrained
roses
making
bowers
,
ripe
oranges
hanging
over
the
walls
.
They
jostle
against
women
,
each
made
charming
,
even
the
ugliest
of
them
,
by
the
black
lace
kerchief
tied
about
her
head
.
"
Henry
James
says
that
an
English
crowd
is
the
best-looking
in
the
world
,
"
says
Byng
,
in
a
tone
of
strong
dissent
,
following
with
his
eyes
a
little
tripping
figure
,
and
with
an
expression
of
pronounced
approbation
in
those
eyes
,
which
gives
Burgoyne
a
momentary
twinge
of
misgiving
as
to
his
chaperonship
.
"
I
should
put
it
the
other
way
up
,
and
say
that
they
are
the
ugliest
.
"
"
All
crowds
are
ugly
,
and
most
individuals
,
"
replies
Burgoyne
,
misanthropically
looking
up
from
his
guide-book
.
They
are
sauntering
down
the
Via
Garibaldi
,
street
of
palaces
that
deserves
an
antiquer
name
than
that
of
the
somewhat
shoddy
and
recent
hero
who
has
god-fathered
it
.
Noblest
Via
,
down
whose
stately
length
great
towering
bulks
succeed
each
