yourscandal
,
well-corked
and
in
a
dry
place
,
till
you
are
about
eighty
.
Then
you
publish
with
additions.’
‘I
dare
say
,
’
laughed
Alison
,
‘that
scandal
does
n't
“
keep
”
any
better
than
other
things
.
A
little
venom
has
to
be
added.’
‘Scandal
,
’
put
in
the
pretty
woman
,
emerging
suddenly
from
a
flirtation
with
the
sentimental
Slav
,
‘is
only
interesting
about
one
's
contemporaries.’
‘Dear
me
,
what
an
interesting
woman
Lady
Blaythewaite
must
be
,
’
whispered
Mr.
Beaufort
Flower
into
the
ear
of
a
solemn
man
with
a
heavy
jaw
,
who
was
well-connected
,
and
who
was
understood
to
write
essays
in
Addisonian
English
.
‘Ah
!
’
ejaculated
the
solemn
man
,
with
a
thoughtful
glance
at
the
pretty
woman
.
‘My
only
objection
to
immoral
people
,
’
chat-
tered
the
other
,
gazing
at
her
with
weary
,
half-closed
eyes
,
‘is
that
they
're
generally
so
shockingly
censorious
.
‘No
one
else
's
conduct
,
I
suppose
,
’
rejoined
the
solemn
man
deliberately
,
‘comes
up
to
their
high
ethical
standard.’
‘My
heavens
!
’
exclaimed
the
pretty
woman
,
who
had
heard
part
of
the
answer
,
‘they
've
begun
to
talk
of
ethical
standards
!
I
must
n't
keep
the
roans
any
longer
.
Good-bye
,
all
you
people
,
good-bye.’
And
sweeping
away
among
her
rustling
silk
petticoats
the
complimentary
Slav
,
Lady
Blaythewaite
's
tiny
head
and
wide
shoulders
were
seen
descending
the
staircase
.
There
was
a
pause
.
Most
of
the
people
were
leaving
.
From
the
open
hall
door
came
the
click
of
closing
carriage-doors
,
the
word
‘Home’
pronounced
in
the
official
voice
of
the
unemotional
grooms
,
and
the
sound
of
departing
wheels
.
Dr.
Dunlop
Strange
was
bending
towards
Alison
,
talking
earnestly
.
‘Charmin
'
rooms
,
’
said
Mr.
Beaufy
Flower
vaguely
,
terrified
at
finding
himself
alone
with
Mary
,
whom
he
took
for
his
especial
aversion
,
a
débutante
.
His
eye
ran
round
the
rather
bare
walls
,
the
fluted
steel
fenders
,
the
marble
mantelpieces
topped
by
their
huge
mirrors
.
‘So
nice
and
old-fashioned
,
are
n't
they
?
Should
you
say
early
Victorian
now
,
or
late
William
the
Fourth
?
’
But
the
favourite
modern
amusement
of
whispering
malicious
things
of
one
's
host
or
hostess
behind
their
backs
had
never
appealed
to
her
,
and
much
to
his
surprise
the
fair
girl
in
mourning
evinced
no
further
desire
for
his
society
,
but
with
one
of
those
little
manoeuvres
which
only
women
of
the
world
know
how
to
execute
without
offence
,
she
had
joined
Alison
and
the
doctor
.
‘Good
gracious
!
’
he
said
to
himself
as
he
tripped
downstairs
to
his
brougham
.
‘How
pert
!
I
do
n't
believe
she
's
a
débutante
after
all.’
CHAPTER
VIII
MARY
TRIES
TO
LIVE
HER
LIFE
ONE
night
,
about
a
fortnight
later
,
Mary
walked
home
to
her
lodgings
in
Bulstrode
Street
more
than
usually
weary
and
anxious
.
Somehow
she
felt
hipped
;
she
would
have
liked
to
creep
back
,
just
for
once
,
to
the
book-lined
drawing-room
in
Harley
Street
,
with
its
indefinable
air
of
perfect
taste
and
perfect
comfort
;
to
the
little
tea-table
near
the
fire
,
with
its
silver
kettle
,
its
dainty
china
,
and
the
hot
cakes
which
cook
used
to
make
so
well
.
In
those
days
,
Mary
remembered
with
a
pang
,
a
well-known
step
would
be
heard
ascending
the
stair
,
and
the
professor
would
come
in
,
with
his
keen
eyes
,
and
his
dear
,
thin
face
,
and
stand
with
his
back
to
the
fire
while
he
sipped
his
tea
and
teased
his
‘little
girl.’
But
instead
,
she
entered
the
narrow
passage
of
a
house
in
Bulstrode
Street
,
of
which
the
varnished
marble
paper
,
as
well
as
the
grained
staircase
and
stiff
patterned
oil-cloth
were
worn
and
stained
with
age
,
and
ascended
to
her
own
domain
,
which
consisted
of
two
rooms
.
In
the
little
bed-room
,
giving
on
a
grimy
back-yard
,
there
was
a
small
iron
bed
with
starved-looking
pillows
,
a
washing
apparatus
of
which
every
article
,
by
a
strange
chance
,
was
of
a
different
pattern
,
two
chairs
,
and
a
chest
of
drawers
in
imitation
grained
wood
,
with
white
china
handles
.
On
the
walls
,
covered
with
a
paper
on
which
apples
of
a
dingy
yellow
sprawled
,
in
endless
repetition
,
on
a
dull
green
ground
,
were
several
framed
texts
.
A
yacht
in
full
sail
,
on
the
bluest
of
lithograph
seas
,
was
accompanied
by
the
words
,
‘Search
the
Scriptures
;
’
while
opposite
,
encased
in
an
Oxford
oak
frame
,
a
stout
,
highly-coloured
kingfisher
emerging
from
a
colony
of
bulrushes
,
faced
another
familiar
phrase
.
These
pictorial
aids
to
piety
were
the
only
ornaments
of
the
bedroom
,
and
Mary
often
smiled
when
she
thought
of
the
delicate
silver
point
drawings
that
hung
on
the
pink
walls
at
home
.
She
thought
,
too
,
of
the
things
that
used
to
strike
her
as
she
read
,
and
which
she
would
write
out
and
pin
up
in
her
pretty
luxurious
bed-room
;
the
scraps
of
poetry
in
various
tongues
which
she
would
scribble
hastily
on
the
back
of
some
young
man
's
visiting
card
,
and
then
pin
up
,
with
a
slender
gilt
tack
,
on
to
her
door
;
especially
those
lines
of
James
Thomson
's
,
which
,
about
a
year
after
her
first
heart-ache
,
when
all
had
ended
in
disappointment
,
it
had
given
her
such
ironical
pleasure
to
nail
up
in
her
bed-room
,
to
the
bewilderment
of
the
new
housemaid
:
‘The
old
three
hundred
sixty-five
Dull
days
to
every
year
alive
Old
toil
,
old
care
,
old
worthless
treasures
,
Old
gnawing
sorrows
,
swindling
pleasures
,
The
cards
were
shuffled
to
and
fro
,
The
hands
may
vary
somewhat
so
,
The
dirty
pack
's
the
same
we
know
Played
with
long
thousand
years
ago
;
Played
with
and
lost
with
still
by
Man
—
Fate
marked
them
'
ere
the
game
began.’
Ah
,
she
could
afford
to
be
pessimistic
in
those
days
!
As
Mary
took
off
her
hat
and
threw
her
cloak
on
the
narrow
bed
,
hastening
her
toilet
for
the
evening
because
of
the
bitter
cold
of
the
room
,
she
repeated
these
lines
softly
to
herself
;
oddly
enough
,
they
evoked
an
image
of
that
pretty
bygone
bedroom
,
of
a
tent-bed
with
gay
draperies
,
a
fire
blazing
against
a
background
of
Dutch
tiles
,
on
which
blue
ships
in
full
sail
were
scudding
over
stiff
curly
waves
,
of
soft
mats
of
white
fur
on
which
it
was
a
joy
to
tread
with
bare
feet
.
‘No
,
I
ca
n't
afford
to
be
pessimistic
,
now
,
’
thought
the
girl
,
as
she
went
into
the
other
room
.
The
fire
was
nearly
out
,
but
two
gas-burners
,
which
had
been
lighted
by
the
maid-of-all-work
,
and
left
on
at
full
tap
,
had
already
loaded
the
air
with
the
fumes
of
gas
.
It
was
now
a
quarter
past
six
;
she
could
not
ask
for
tea
,
although
her
throat
burned
and
her
head
ached
.
No
,
she
must
wait
for
dinner
,
her
modest
little
dinner
,
which
was
served
,
with
variations
as
to
punctuality
,
about
seven
o'clock
.
Mary
threw
herself
on
to
the
hard
sofa
,
and
her
eyes
travelled
round
the
room
.
The
furniture
was
old
,
shabby
,
and
pretentious
.
She
had
an
idea
that
there
were
cheap
Landseer
engravings
on
the
wall
,
but
Mary
had
made
up
her
mind
never
to
look
at
the
pictures
;
otherwise
,
she
said
,
she
would
have
had
to
change
her
lodgings
at
once
,
and
that
she
did
not
wish
to
do
,
as
the
landlady
was
an
old
servant
of
theirs
,
and
would
look
after
her
better
than
a
stranger
.
After
all
,
the
place
would
do
well
enough
as
a
makeshift
.
It
was
best
,
she
thought
,
not
to
accept
invitations
from
friends
,
but
to
begin
to
live
her
own
life
.
On
days
like
to-day
,
when
she
was
weary
and
disheartened
,
Mary
found
it
necessary
to
repeat
this
phrase
in
her
mind
:
‘To
live
her
own
life.’
For
it
was
all
dispiriting
enough
.
Art
and
artists
,
as
exemplified
in
the
Central
London
,
were
but
doubtfully
alluring
;
Mary
wondered
if
anywhere
else
she
might
find
the
‘art’
atmosphere
of
which
she
had
read
so
much
.
But
anyhow
her
Academy
drawing
was
done
;
it
had
gone
in
with
a
dozen
others
,
and
to-morrow
she
would
know
if
she
had
succeeded
.
She
lay
like
a
log
on
the
hard
sofa
,
while
the
gilt
clock
with
the
hovering
cupid
slowly
ticked
out
three-quarters
of
an
hour
.
On
the
mantel-piece
a
long
photograph
of
Alison
,
in
an
evening
gown
,
exhibiting
a
good
deal
of
a
fine
arm
and
shoulder
,
was
supported
by
a
large
one
of
Vincent
Hemming
,
with
his
grave
expression
,
and
wearing
an
orchid
in
his
button-hole
.
At
last
came
dinner
,
heralded
by
an
odour
of
boiled
potatoes
and
frizzling
meat
.
But
the
girl
was
too
tired
to
eat
the
badly-cooked
food
;
she
pushed
away
the
steak
,
which
was
tough
and
hard
,
and
tried
to
drink
some
of
the
small
bottle
of
stout
,
which
was
flat
,
with
a
strange
flavour
.
Mary
rebuked
herself
for
these
fantasies
of
the
appetite
;
it
behoved
a
young
woman
who
wished
to
make
her
way
in
the
world
and
compete
with
men
to
indulge
in
no
such
over-niceties
.
But
a
very
feminine
backache
overcame
her
,
and
presently
the
maid-of-all-work
,
in
creaking
boots
,
removed
with
much
clattering
the
dishes
,
and
Mary
was
left
alone
with
the
firelight
for
a
companion
.
The
photographs
of
her
two
friends
looked
down
on
her
from
the
mantelpiece
;
Alison
,
with
her
capable
expression
and
her
distinguished
air
;
Vincent
Hemming
,
with
his
showily
intellectual
forehead
,
his
weak
mouth
,
and
the
slight
frown
which
he
sometimes
affected
.
What
a
long
time
it
seemed
since
they
had
said
good-bye
,
first
on
that
long
summer
day
which
they
had
spent
at
Haslemere
,
and
finally
at
Tilbury
,
when
the
great
P.
and
0.
steamer
had
been
swallowed
up
in
the
greyness
of
the
wide
river
and
tearful
sky
.
Yes
,
a
long
time
;
but
he
had
grown
more
to
her
in
his
absence
than
he
had
ever
been
,
even
at
the
last
,
for
Mary
was
of
the
order
of
women
who
idealise
the
absent
.
Oddly
enough
,
Vincent
,
pacing
the
deck
of
the
Sutlej
in
his
flapping
ulster
and
his
soft
felt
hat
(
he
was
not
one
of
those
people
who
look
their
best
in
travelling
costume
)
,
had
seemed
more
of
a
stranger
than
the
man
whose
letters
,
arriving
by
the
Indian
mail
,
lay
beside
her
plate
every
Monday
morning
.
She
remembered
with
a
smile
how
fussy
he
had
been
about
his
luggage
,
and
how
humiliated
she
had
felt
when
,
man-like
,
Vincent
Hemming
had
insisted
on
a
last
embrace
,
and
,
drawing
her
into
his
cabin
,
had
shut
the
door
in
the
face
of
the
steward
.
She
had
dwelt
a
great
deal
on
those
last
moments
.
He
had
seemed
so
passionately
attached
to
her
;
the
whole
affair
,
though
it
had
been
obliged
to
remain
vague
,
had
become
a
solemn
fact
in
her
existence
.
A
letter
from
Vincent
had
arrived
that
morning
;
Mary
felt
in
her
pocket
for
the
thin
,
crackling
envelope
bearing
the
post-mark
‘Calcutta.’
It
was
a
peculiarity
of
Hemming
's
that
one
,
and
sometimes
two
,
pages
of
his
letters
were
indited
in
a
flowing
hand
,
while
the
rest
of
the
paper
was
covered
with
uncertain
upright
hieroglyphics
,
which
took
all
the
reader
's
patience
and
good-will
to
decipher
.
‘My
dear
Mary’
(
it
began
)
—
‘My
delightful
roamings
have
been
brought
to
a
standstill
in
this
ancient
and
historic
spot
,
one
so
eminently
suited
to
the
special
studies
which
I
desire
,
in
furtherance
of
my
scheme
,
to
make
.
You
will
,
I
am
sure
,
be
delighted
to
hear
that
on
all
hands
I
have
had
every
civility
and
courtesy
extended
to
me
from
officials
of
every
class
,
and
that
my
father
's
name
alone
has
been
a
sufficient
introduction
for
me
,
in
those
circles
in
which
it
is
most
desirable
for
the
purpose
I
have
in
hand
to
move
.
You
will
also
,
my
dear
Mary
,
be
rejoiced
to
hear
that
my
health
has
vastly
improved
since
my
departure
from
England
;
the
fact
alone
that
I
anticipate
with
pleasure
the
advent
of
breakfast
will
give
you
a
fair
idea
of
my
improved
state
of
health
,
and
I
think
I
may
say
that
,
considering
the
somewhat
trying
nature
of
the
climatic
conditions
,
my
appearance
has
wonderfully
improved
.
But
enough
of
my-
self
.
I
need
not
say
that
I
am
delighted
to
hear
that
you
are
bravely
and
earnestly
attacking
those
art
studies
which
,
with
due
application
,
will
ensure
you
fame
,
and
possibly
wealth
,
and
which
will
,
my
dearest
girl
,
be
no
mean
factor
in
our
(
possible
)
future
happiness.’
Mary
sighed
as
she
let
the
letter
drop
,
and
gazed
thoughtfully
into
the
fire
.
It
was
here
that
the
flowing
persuasive
handwriting
terminated
abruptly
,
and
that
the
upright
uncertain
characters
began
.
‘Had
I’
(
it
went
on
)
‘no
dreams
,
no
aspirations
for
the
amelioration
of
the
English
race
—
were
I
,
in
short
,
a
man
to
whom
personal
happiness
is
paramount
—
I
might
have
spoken
more
decisively
in
relation
to
a
possible
future
together
before
I
left
England
.
But
I
am
paying
you
no
mean
compliment
,
my
dear
Mary
,
when
I
tell
you
that
I
have
every
confidence
that
in
you
,
as
in
myself
,
questions
of
vast
importance
rise
superior
to
mere
selfish
considerations
,
and
that
in
you
,
above
all
women
,
I
have
a
sympathetic
sharer
alike
of
my
ambitions
,
dreams
,
and
hopes
.
It
is
above
all
in
studying
the
marvellous
system
of
government
of
a
vast
aggregation
of
human
beings
of
divers
nationalities
,
of
such
widely-differing
ethical
standards
as
this
great
Indian
Empire
—
’
and
here
the
handwriting
changed
again
to
the
slanting
style
and
mean-
dered
on
over
three
crisp
pages
which
the
girl
let
fall
on
her
lap
.
Somehow
she
would
not
reconcile
this
lover
,
with
his
old-fashioned
phrases
and
copybook
platitudes
,
with
the
Vincent
Hemming
who
had
held
her
in
his
arms
in
the
cabin
of
the
Sutlej
,
crushing
the
breath
out
of
her
body
in
the
supreme
moment
of
farewell
.
.
.
.
Of
the
fine
irony
which
results
from
the
clash
of
human
passion
and
human
ambition
she
had
not
,
as
yet
,
a
conception
.
It
is
to
be
feared
that
Mary
,
with
all
her
somewhat
worldly
training
,
was
,
as
far
as
her
affections
were
concerned
,
astonishingly
naïve
.
She
was
only
a
girl
after
all
.
And
so
,
in
the
dim
light
of
the
dreary
apartments
,
Mary
sat
and
dreamed
her
little
dream
.
Lonely
,
tired
,
discouraged
,
she
clung
to
the
thought
of
their
marriage
with
curious
tenacity
.
She
was
haunted
incessantly
by
a
vision
of
tender
brown
eyes
,
of
a
caressing
hand
,
of
a
sympathetic
voice
;
of
a
pretty
interior
with
books
,
and
pictures
,
and
soft
lamp-light
;
of
a
man
's
head
uplifted
from
a
desk
,
while
she
held
her
latest
picture
up
for
her
husband
to
see
.
He
was
not
a
judge
of
pictures
,
she
remembered
with
a
smile
;
he
would
probably
think
her
modest
attempts
masterpieces
.
Why
,
he
had
even
liked
the
sketch
she
had
made
at
Haslemere
,
on
that
last
day
they
had
spent
in
the
country
together
.
After
all
,
Vincent
and
she
together
would
have
enough
to
live
quietly
on
;
if
she
succeeded
in
her
art
,
he
might
even
yet
realise
his
ambition
and
enter
on
a
political
career
.
What
,
indeed
,
might
not
the
years
bring
forth
?
However
dismal
things
seemed
now
,
there
was
Hope
—
that
Will-o'-the-wisp
of
the
young
—
beckoning
her
from
the
dim
valleys
of
the
future
.
To-morrow
,
to-morrow
she
would
know
.
Mary
took
up
the
letter
again
,
and
bending
down
to
the
fire
,
re-read
one
or
two
affectionate
phrases
at
the
last
.
Then
she
put
it
carefully
into
a
locked
case
which
contained
some
twenty
epistles
in
thin
envelopes
,
turned
out
the
gas
,
and
went
into
her
chilly
bedroom
,
where
,
in
the
process
of
brushing
out
her
fluffy
blond
hair
for
the
night
,
she
told
herself
valiantly
that
she
was
a
lucky
little
person
.
CHAPTER
IX
PERRY
CONSOLES
THE
next
day
—
the
day
which
was
to
decide
her
fate
with
the
Academy
schools
—
revealed
itself
shrouded
with
fog
.
By
the
light
of
one
gas-burner
Mary
tried
to
eat
some
breakfast
,
but
the
doubtful
allurements
of
the
boiled
egg
which
usually
awaited
her
appealed
to
her
to-day
in
vain
.
She
had
slept
badly
and
risen
late
;
it
was
now
half-past
ten
.
Already
,
at
the
art
school
,
in
the
grimy
little
office
,
the
names
of
the
successful
candidates
would
be
nailed
up
.
No
,
she
could
not
eat
;
she
must
know
.
It
meant
so
much
to
her
,
so
much
more
,
she
thought
,
than
to
any
of
the
others
.
It
meant
independence
,
a
profession
,
a
happy
union
.
How
many
hoped-for
marriages
she
had
seen
fail
among
professional
people
just
for
the
want
of
a
mere
hundred
or
so
a
year
.
If
she
were
good
enough
for
the
Academy
schools
,
she
felt
that
there
was
a
future
before
her
.
She
saw
herself
,
in
imagination
,
working
,
earning
,
helping
.
Putting
on
her
coat
and
hat
she
was
soon
outside
in
the
fog
,
and
threading
her
away
along
the
streets
to
the
School
of
Art
.
Underfoot
was
a
layer
of
greasy
mud
.
In
the
little
shops
a
bleared
gas-light
made
an
orange
patch
in
the
all-pervading
greyness
.
At
the
fruiterers
'
the
mounds
of
golden
oranges
,
crimson
apples
,
and
scarlet
tomatoes
flamed
with
startling
assurance
against
the
blurred
,
brownish-grey
of
the
houses
,
the
pavement
,
the
very
atmosphere
.
She
was
curiously
alive
,
now
,
to
effects
of
colour
,
to
‘values’
;
everywhere
the
girl
saw
a
possible
picture
.
If
she
had
passed
,
Mary
made
up
her
mind
she
would
telegraph
to
Vincent
.
It
would
be
an
extravagance
,
but
it
would
make
him
so
happy
.
Mary
pictured
her
lover
reading
that
charming
message
from
over
the
seas
,
as
he
sat
in
an
Indian
verandah
in
a
white
flannel
suit
,
with
a
hazy
background
of
punkahs
and
date
palms
.
Afterwards
,
when
she
thought
of
that
day
,
she
remembered
that
the
hall
of
the
art
school
was
full
of
students
,
all
talking
at
once
.
At
the
sight
of
the
girl
's
expectant
face
someone
called
out
goodnaturedly
,
‘I
say
,
you
're
in
,
Miss
Erle
.
I
'm
sure
I
saw
your
name
on
the
list
.
It
's
in
the
office
,
pinned
up
over
the
mantel-piece.’
Mary
slid
into
the
little
room
without
a
word
.
Yes
,
there
was
the
list
of
successful
probationers
,
written
in
Mr.
Sanderson
's
careful
hand
on
a
slip
of
notepaper
,
and
pinned
up
with
a
brass
drawing
pin
over
the
mantelpiece
.
Her
eye
ran
hastily
along
the
list
—
‘Simpkins
,
Dorothy
Muriel
;
Smith
,
Mary
Gwendo
]
en
;
Walsh
,
Joseph
Frederick
;
Billington
,
George
Francis
;
Thomson
,
Pamela
Evelyn
;
Beadle
,
Reginald
Forsyth.’
That
was
all
.
She
read
it
again
to
make
sure
,
repeating
to
herself
,
mechanically
,
the
Dorothys
,
Pamelas
,
and
Gwendolens
of
the
back-shop
.
No
,
there
was
no
possible
mistake
.
The
name
of
Mary
Erle
was
not
there
.
And
so
it
was
all
over
...
Never
,
she
felt
,
should
she
have
the
courage
to
spend
another
six
months
labouring
and
stippling
over
another
Laocoon
.
The
girl
slipped
into
a
chair
in
a
corner
.
Her
disappointment
had
affected
her
physically
,
her
feet
were
icy
cold
;
she
felt
,
without
being
hungry
,
as
if
she
had
nothing
inside
her
,
while
the
voices
of
people
talking
round
sounded
strange
and
far
away
.
But
presently
she
roused
herself
and
went
through
the
big
room
to
collect
some
things
she
had
left
.
Only
Mr.
Perry
Jackson
met
her
behind
the
olive-green
curtain
:
—
Mr
.
Jackson
,
who
,
although
the
workmen
were
now
out
of
his
studio
,
was
curiously
often
to
be
seen
at
the
school
.
He
glanced
at
Mary
and
instantly
read
the
disappointment
in
her
face
.
Though
young
,
he
was
,
after
all
,
a
Londoner
,
and
had
the
Cockney
's
intuitive
knowledge
of
the
world
.
He
even
went
so
far
as
to
congratulate
Miss
Erle
in
having
failed
to
attain
the
desired
standard
of
academical
excellence
.
He
had
,
as
he
admitted
with
pleasing
candour
,
only
got
his
own
drawing
admitted
,
in
the
years
gone
by
,
‘by
the
skin
of
its
teeth.’
As
for
himself
,
he
had
mainly
attended
the
classes
(
and
this
was
said
with
something
very
like
a
wink
)
to
make
friends
with
the
Royal
Academicians
.
‘They
're
all
right
when
you
know
'
em
,
but
you
've
got
to
know
'
em
first
,
’
quoted
the
rising
artist
.
‘There
's
old
Jack
Madder
,
who
always
does
Wardour
Street
pictures
;
he
's
not
half
a
bad
old
chap
,
and
thinks
no
end
of
me
.
He
's
on
the
Hanging
Committee
next
year
.
I
go
and
ask
his
advice
.
I
'm
going
to
do
a
big
thing
for
next
year
's
Academy
,
and
I
'll
eat
my
hat
if
it
is
n't
on
the
line
!
’
‘I
hope
so
,
I
'm
sure
,
’
replied
Mary
,
smiling
.
‘When
are
you
going
to
begin
?
’
‘Oh
,
at
once
.
I
've
got
an
idea
that
's
bound
to
fetch
the
public.’
‘Indeed
?
’
replied
Mary
,
amused
at
his
naïve
optimism
.
‘I
shall
call
it
“
The
Time
of
Roses
.
”
What
do
you
think
of
that
?
Neat
,
eh
?
Nothing
but
girls
,
and
nothing
but
roses
.
Lord
,
you
ca
n't
give
the
public
enough
of
either
of
them
.
It
likes
'
em
,
because
they
both
“
go
off
”
so
soon
,
’
added
Mr.
Jackson
,
charmed
with
his
own
perspicacity
.
‘It
'll
be
an
eight-footer
,
if
it
's
an
inch
,
and
if
it
is
n't
on
the
line
next
May
—
—
’
‘I
dare
say
it
will
be
an
immense
success
,
’
said
Mary
quietly
,
as
she
thought
of
bygone
Private
Views
,
and
of
the
canvases
which
had
become
‘the
picture
of
the
year.’
‘Now
,
for
the
Grosvenor
,
’
continued
Mr.
Jackson
—
‘after
my
last
Academy
picture
they
're
spry
enough
with
their
invitations
to
exhibit
there
—
I
shall
do
a
girl
in
a
graveyard
.
Bless
you
,
people
are
“
death
”
on
cemeteries
.
Black
dress
—
limp
—
black
hat
,
hangin
'
on
her
arm
—
black
circles
round
the
eyes
.
And
there
you
are
,
do
n't
you
know.’
Mary
laughed
.
There
was
not
much
doubt
about
the
fact
that
Mr.
Perry
Jackson
was
destined
to
get
on
.
He
had
an
astonishing
facility
in
painting
;
in
the
summer
time
he
worked
at
vast
canvases
,
out
of
doors
,
in
the
country
,
painting
with
large
square
brushes
,
in
the
approved
modern
manner
.
‘Oh
!
I
say
,
Miss
Erle
,
’
said
Perry
,
detaining
the
girl
with
a
look
as
she
stood
putting
her
painting
things
together
.
There
was
something
of
despair
in
the
way
in
which
Mary
was
folding
up
her
easel
,
and
arranging
her
chalks
and
paint-brushes
in
the
long
tin
box
,
and
with
his
quick
sympathy
the
young
man
wished
to
assuage
her
sickening
disappointment
.
‘Just
look
here
,
’
he
continued
,
pulling
from
a
cardboard
portfolio
an
Indian-ink
drawing
of
a
beautiful
young
woman
in
a
ball-dress
reading
a
love-letter
.
‘Old
“
Stick-in-the-mud
,
”
he
says
he
'd
like
this
drawing
for
Illustrations
,
only
he
must
have
a
short
story
or
some
verses
to
go
with
it
.
Now
,
you
're
so
clever
,
and
literary
,
and
read
so
many
books
,
ca
n't
you
knock
me
off
something
to
print
with
it
?
’
Mary
,
who
had
never
heard
of
this
primitive
method
of
producing
imaginative
literature
,
stared
in
blank
astonishment
at
Mr.
Perry
Jackson
.
Her
eye
caught
his
knobby
hands
,
his
stubbly
hair
,
his
knowing
,
anaemic
,
town-bred
face
,
and
then
the
picture
of
the
exquisite
woman
robed
in
tulle
,
which
he
held
in
his
hand
.
‘Oh
,
yes
.
Why
not
?
’
she
found
herself
saying
eagerly
.
‘I
will
try
,
if
you
like
.
I
think
I
could
do
quite
a
short
story
.
And
I
can
only
—
fail
,
’
she
added
,
a
little
bitterly
,
as
her
mind
ran
back
over
the
months
she
had
spent
in
that
odious
room
,
herding
with
hulking
boys
,
who
smelt
of
stale
tobacco
,
with
young
ladies
who
tossed
their
heads
archly
,
and
whispered
anecdotes
of
‘fellows’
whom
they
met
in
pastry-cooks
'
shops
,
or
in
the
sculpture
galleries
of
the
British
Museum
.
‘That
's
right
.
Knew
you
could
,
’
rejoined
Perry
,
repacking
the
drawing
.
‘It
'll
be
time
enough
if
I
have
it
in
a
week
.
I
'm
doing
a
story
for
Illutstrations
now
.
Blessed
,
’
he
added
,
with
a
comic
twinkle
,
pushing
back
his
shock
head
of
hair
,
‘if
I
did
n't
make
an
ass
of
myself
yesterday
.
Last
week
old
“
Stick-in-the-Mud
,
”
he
asked
me
if
I
'd
do
some
pictures
for
a
story
.
“
Oh
!
”
I
said
,
“
I
'
m
game
,
”
I
said
;
“
who
's
it
by
?
”
And
he
says
,
“
By
Somervail
.
”
Well
,
I
never
heard
of
him
—
did
you
,
Miss
Erle
?
’
‘I
know
the
name
,
’
said
Mary
.
‘Well
,
presently
comes
the
MSS
.
,
and
I
read
it
through
,
and
it
was
pretty
tough
work
,
I
can
tell
you
,
what
with
not
being
type-written
,
and
I
not
feeling
quite
fit
that
day
,
havin
'
taken
the
chair
at
our
smoking
concert
the
night
before
.
However
,
a
few
days
later
comes
a
stiff
kind
of
a
letter
from
this
Somervail
,
saying
I
must
call
at
once
,
that
evening
,
at
his
house
,
out
Notting
Hill
way
.
So
off
I
go
in
my
carriage
and
pair
(
the
red-and-gold
one
,
do
n't
you
know
)
,
and
presently
I
find
the
house
.
Well
,
the
servant
girl
,
she
showed
me
up
a
passage
covered
all
over
with
autotypes
,
framed
alike
in
white
.
Crikey
'
thought
I
,
here
's
“
High
Art
.
”
There
's
nothing
good
enough
for
this
chap
but
Rossetti
,
and
Burne-Jones
,
and
Watts
.
And
in
the
drawing-room
it
was
just
the
same
—
—
’
‘But
did
n't
you
know
then
whom
it
was
?
’
asked
Mary
,
smiling
.
‘No
,
blessed
if
I
did
!
’
rejoined
Mr.
Jackson
.
‘And
so
this
Mr.
Somervail
comes
in
.
“
Oh
,
good
evening
,
”
says
he
,
without
any
more
ceremony
than
that
.
“
Have
you
brought
the
rough
sketches
for
my
story
?
”
“
No
,
”
I
said
,
“
I
have
n't
,
”
I
said
,
just
imitating
his
off-hand
manner
,
“
because
you
would
n't
have
understood
'
em
if
I
had
.
”
’
‘But
did
n't
you
know
,
’
said
Mary
,
‘that
Mr.
Somervail
is
the
art
critic
of
two
or
three
London
papers
?
’
‘Nary
a
bit
.
Well
,
he
laughed
—
a
sort
of
thin
,
superior
laugh
it
was
—
but
he
did
n't
say
anything
;
and
so
I
got
out
all
right
.
But
I
felt
a
precious
fool
when
I
heard
who
he
was.’
‘Let
us
hope
,
’
said
Mary
,
who
remembered
the
great
art
critic
at
dinner-parties
,
exhibiting
his
culture
,
with
a
modest
air
,
‘let
us
hope
Mr.
Somervail
is
n't
vindictive.’
Perry
looked
uneasy
.
‘I
say
,
’
he
suggested
,
genially
,
‘why
should
n't
you
turn
art
critic
,
Miss
Erle
,
and
slate
us
all
round
?
Old
Somervail
,
he
's
made
a
good
thing
out
of
it
!
’
At
that
instant
a
tumult
of
voices
behind
the
curtain
made
further
conversation
impossible
.
A
girl
's
shrill
scream
was
suddenly
audible
,
and
then
,
the
next
second
,
the
heavy
crash
of
a
falling
plaster
cast
rent
the
momentary
silence
.
Shouts
,
exclamations
,
and
inextinguishable
laughter
,
mingled
with
the
sound
of
scurrying
feet
,
followed
.
An
untoward
gaiety
was
evidently
illumining
the
usual
routine
of
the
school
.
As
Mary
,
gathering
up
her
things
,
passed
through
into
the
large
studio
,
a
boy
's
raucous
voice
raised
the
joyous
,
but
somewhat
incongruous
refrain
:
—
‘The
pore
girl
did
n't
know
,
yer
know
,
The
pore
girl
did
n't
know’
—
a
quotation
which
may
or
may
not
have
had
reference
to
the
now
triumphant
probationer
,
Miss
Simpkins
,
who
,
with
heightened
colour
and
agitated
mien
,
was
bending
over
the
many
fragments
of
the
shattered
Laocoon
,
which
lay
strewn
about
the
floor
.
The
rest
of
the
day
,
it
would
seem
,
was
to
be
devoted
to
celebrating
the
admittance
of
Messrs.
Walsh
,
Billington
,
and
Beadle
to
the
Royal
Academy
Schools
,
for
,
scared
at
Miss
Simpkins
'
misadventure
,
the
girls
incontinently
fled
.
A
drawing
—
a
laboriously
stippled
drawing
—
was
triumphantly
wrenched
from
an
overturned
board
,
and
torn
in
many
pieces
;
the
easels
were
as
unceremoniously
hurled
against
the
wall
.
Some
bottles
of
beer
made
a
mysterious
appearance
,
and
,
from
some
one
's
bag
,
two
pairs
of
boxing-gloves
were
surreptitiously
produced
.
The
moment
was
justly
held
to
be
a
supreme
one
,
for
,
dancing
on
the
shattered
fragments
of
the
fallen
Laocoon
,
a
truculent
,
if
disappointed
,
young
gentleman
was
heard
shouting
to
the
three
successful
students
that
,
‘successful
or
not
,
’
he
would
fight
them
all
in
turn
.
It
may
have
been
the
bottled
ale
,
or
simply
British
perseverance
,
which
emboldened
the
aggressor
,
for
,
as
he
threw
off
his
coat
and
slipped
on
the
gloves
,
he
was
heard
fulminating
the
hazy
,
if
withal
glorious
,
challenge
—
‘I
do
n't
care
a
rap
for
your
blooming
Academy
.
Come
on
,
you
fellows
.
I
'll
show
you
who
's
the
best
man
!
’
CHAPTER
X
IN
GRUB
STREET
IT
was
a
bright
morning
in
January
,
with
scudding
,
woolly
clouds
,
showing
patches
of
vivid
blue
.
Sunshine
brightened
the
huge
gilt
letters
over
the
newspaper
offices
,
the
crowded
,
garishly
coloured
omnibuses
,
the
hansoms
laden
with
portmanteaux
on
their
way
to
Waterloo
Station
,
the
flaxen
hair
and
beflowered
hats
of
the
little
actresses
hurrying
along
to
rehearsal
.
An
ever-moving
procession
of
people
poured
like
a
torrent
up
and
down
the
street
;
journalists
,
country
folk
,
office-boys
,
actors
,
betting-men
,
loafers
—
all
the
curious
,
shifting
world
of
the
Strand
was
jogging
elbows
on
the
pavement
.
Mary
stepped
along
with
a
certain
sense
of
adventure
.
She
had
to
see
the
editor
of
Illustrations
,
but
she
had
no
idea
of
the
whereabouts
of
that
popular
weekly
journal
.
She
had
in
her
pocket
,
too
,
a
letter
of
introduction
to
The
Fan
.
For
her
first
attempt
at
fiction
had
actually
appeared
in
print
,
and
she
was
curiously
anxious
to
go
on
.
For
the
first
few
hours
,
when
she
had
sat
staring
helplessly
at
the
sheets
of
white
paper
which
she
had
torn
into
loose
pages
,
neatly
folding
down
an
inch
border
for
corrections
,
she
had
imagined
that
the
thing
was
impossible
.
Then
,
pacing
up
and
down
the
room
,
Mary
tried
hard
to
concentrate
her
mind
on
a
plot
—
a
plot
in
which
was
to
figure
a
young
lady
in
a
tulle
ball-dress
,
reading
a
three-cornered
note
.
.
.
.
But
she
could
think
of
nothing
.
It
was
all
a
blank
.
What
had
girls
in
ball
dresses
got
to
do
with
life
—
with
life
as
it
swirled
and
rushed
by
her
,
with
its
remorseless
laws
,
its
unceasing
activities
?
.
.
.
But
yet
she
must
think
of
something
.
The
scene
of
her
story
must
be
laid
at
a
ball
;
that
,
as
Mr.
Perry
Jackson
would
have
said
,
was
sure
to
‘fetch
the
public.’
Surely
,
surely
she
could
invent
a
love-story
?
Yet
nothing
came
.
There
seemed
no
reason
,
in
the
eternal
fitness
of
things
,
why
the
hero
should
be
dark
and
faithful
,
or
blonde
and
fickle
,
or
if
the
scene
should
be
laid
in
the
country
,
in
town
,
or
abroad
.
And
there
was
the
illustration
,
too
,
for
which
the
story
was
to
be
written
,
and
Mary
,
before
she
began
,
had
grown
to
loathe
the
simpering
young
lady
in
tulle
,
eternally
reading
her
love-letter
.
.
.
.
But
at
last
,
after
hours
of
torment
,
an
idea
came
,
and
then
the
girl
wrote
steadily
on
,
with
the
easy
facility
of
the
amateur
.
She
had
not
an
idea
that
her
story
was
like
everybody
else
's
story
—
her
way
of
telling
it
like
that
of
hundreds
of
third-rate
authors
of
fiction
whom
she
had
read
.
After
the
clatter
and
roar
of
the
street
,
the
staircase
which
led
to
the
editor
's
room
at
the
office
of
Illustrations
seemed
dark
and
silent
.
The
bare
wooden
treads
were
black
with
age
and
dirt
,
and
were
lighted
only
by
a
wan
light
,
which
flickered
through
a
frosted-glass
door
,
on
which
was
printed
,
in
gilt
letters
,
the
word
Illustrations
,
the
first
letter
having
become
effaced
in
the
course
of
years
.
Underneath
was
to
be
read
,
in
black
italics
:
‘
Editor
's
Room
—
Private
.’
It
was
some
little
time
before
Mary
was
able
to
overcome
the
scruples
of
the
office-boy
—
a
young
gentleman
whom
she
found
dallying
in
an
ante-room
,
pensively
whistling
a
sprightly
air
which
was
just
then
much
in
favour
,
while
he
leisurely
perused
sundry
inexpensive
comic
journals
;
but
at
length
she
succeeded
in
persuading
him
to
take
in
her
card
.
And
presently
a
door
was
flung
open
,
and
Mary
found
herself
in
a
small
room
,
giving
on
Fleet
Street
,
fronting
a
tall
man
with
a
large
,
melancholy
face
,
who
was
bending
over
a
desk
.
With
some
trepidation
she
remembered
that
the
tall
,
melancholy
man
,
according
to
Mr.
Perry
Jackson
,
had
the
reputation
of
being
able
to
get
people
out
of
his
office
quicker
than
any
other
editor
in
London
.
‘Professor
Erle
's
daughter
,
I
believe
?
’
said
the
editor
severely
,
without
looking
up
from
the
proofs
he
was
correcting
.
‘Yes.’
‘Ah
!
We
were
able
to
make
use
of
your
story
,
though
it
was
not
quite
up
to
the
mark.’
‘I
'm
sorry
—
’
began
Mary
.
‘The
name
,
of
course
,
’
went
on
the
editor
,
without
noticing
the
interruption
,
‘the
name
counts
for
something
.
Your
late
father
's
name
carries
weight
with
a
certain
section
of
the
public
.
And
then
,
with
practice
,
you
may
do
somewhat
better
.
With
practice
,
you
may
be
able
to
write
stories
which
other
young
ladies
like
to
read.’
And
with
not
a
suspicion
of
the
ambiguity
of
his
compliment
,
the
editor
rummaged
in
his
desk
for
some
missing
object
.
Mary
's
heart
fell
.
Was
her
story
as
bad
as
all
that
,
she
wondered
?
She
was
aware
that
,
from
a
literary
point
of
view
,
such
praise
was
worse
than
blame
.
In
the
pause
which
followed
she
had
leisure
to
look
round
furtively
.
And
so
this
was
the
office
of
a
big
weekly
newspaper
?
The
walls
,
once
painted
a
kind
of
pea-green
,
were
dim
with
soot
,
and
adorned
only
with
a
map
of
London
on
a
roller
;
on
the
floor
was
stretched
a
grimy
,
threadbare
carpet
.
A
bluish
gas-fire
hissed
in
a
narrow
,
black
mantelpiece
,
and
through
the
encrusted
grime
of
the
window-panes
appeared
the
tall
brick
houses
of
the
opposite
side
of
the
Strand
.
A
long
procession
of
omnibuses
rattled
by
continually
,
and
she
could
see
the
tops
of
the
hats
of
those
who
sat
on
the
outside
.
The
sole
furniture
of
the
room
consisted
of
a
bureau
with
pigeon-holes
,
and
three
chairs
,
covered
in
cracked
maroon-coloured
leather
,
whose
legs
partook
of
that
especial
curliness
which
was
in
high
fashion
in
1860.
Meanwhile
the
editor
had
found
his
cheque-book
,
and
,
tearing
out
a
leaf
,
wrote
:
‘Pay
to
Miss
Erle
two
pounds
two
shillings
for
contribu-
tions
during
the
month
of
January.’
Mary
took
the
cheque
with
a
heightened
colour
and
a
beating
heart
.
It
was
the
first
money
she
had
ever
earned
.
This
was
the
beginning
.
A
tinkling
of
the
electric
bell
was
heard
,
and
the
office-boy
put
in
his
head
.
‘A
gentleman
to
see
you
,
sir.’
‘What
for
?
’
‘Drorings
,
sir.’
‘Show
him
in.’
Mary
rose
.
‘Wait
a
minute
,
Miss
Erle.’
A
long
,
shambling
youth
,
whose
face
seemed
swollen
with
the
toothache
,
shuffled
in
,
carrying
a
portfolio
of
sketches
.
Not
a
word
passed
.
It
was
a
strange
little
scene
.
The
shambling
youth
stood
nervously
twisting
his
shabby
pot-hat
in
his
fingers
as
the
editor
rapidly
ran
his
eye
over
the
drawings
.
‘Thanks
,
’
he
said
,
re-tying
the
strings
and
handing
back
the
portfolio
over
the
desk
.
‘No
use
to
us
.
Good
morning
.
Top
handle
,
’
and
he
waved
his
pen
towards
the
door
.
In
another
instant
the
aspiring
artist
was
gone
.
‘Terrible
waste
of
time
,
‘
muttered
the
large
,
melancholy
man
.
‘Hundreds
of
them
a
week.’
‘Poor
boy
,
’
said
Mary
,
who
had
seen
his
disappointed
face
.
‘Pooh
,
’
rejoined
the
editor
,
frowning
;
‘what
we
want
are
well-known
names
;
the
public
likes
a
name
,
’
and
apparently
with
an
eye
to
that
section
of
it
which
had
sat
at
the
feet
of
Professor
Erle
,
he
added
abruptly
,
‘We
will
consider
anything
else
you
may
care
to
submit
to
us
,
Miss
Erle.’
‘Oh
,
thank
you
,
’
said
Mary
,
‘I
should
like
to
try
again
,
’
and
,
treading
on
air
,
she
made
her
way
out
,
followed
by
the
now
admiring
glance
of
the
office-boy
,
who
was
not
accustomed
to
see
people
detained
in
the
editorial
sanctum
so
long
.
The
girl
was
inordinately
proud
of
her
cheque
for
two
guineas
.
How
much
better
,
after
all
,
than
stippling
eternally
at
the
Discobolus
—
for
it
was
the
Discobolus
this
time
,
with
which
she
was
to
try
her
fate
at
the
Academy
schools
—
in
the
dubious
atmosphere
of
the
art
school
.
The
story
had
taken
four
days
to
write
.
There
were
three
hundred
and
sixty-five
days
in
a
year
,
so
that
by
writing
a
story
or
an
article
every
four
days
she
could
earn
something
like
two
hundred
a
year
!
And
what
lots
of
papers
there
were
!
Fleet
Street
was
full
of
them
.
They
lurked
up
alleys
and
in
quaint
little
squares
at
the
back
.
Here
they
were
:
The
Daily
Telegraph
,
The
Observer
,
The
Graphic
,
The
Illustrated
London
News
.
Why
should
she
not
walk
in
and
demand
some
work
to
do
?
The
idea
was
fearfully
alluring
.
She
passed
a
poster
of
Illustrations
,
with
the
name
of
her
story
in
bright
blue
print
,
and
Mary
stood
still
and
read
it
over
and
over
again
with
a
quickened
pulse
,
until
she
was
pushed
aside
by
the
tide
of
human
beings
eddying
along
the
street
.
But
at
present
,
she
recollected
,
she
had
to
find
The
Fan
.
After
many
inquiries
,
Mary
found
that
the
office
was
located
in
a
huge
building
in
one
of
the
queer
little
squares
out
of
Fleet
Street
,
and
that
it
was
only
one
of
many
magazines
and
newspapers
published
by
the
same
firm
.
It
proved
to
be
a
little
world
in
itself
,
this
vast
bee-hive
,
for
the
printing
,
publishing
,
and
editing
of
some
dozen
magazines
and
journals
were
all
conducted
on
the
premises
.
There
was
a
deafening
whirr
of
machinery
which
reminded
the
girl
vaguely
of
international
exhibitions
,
and
at
every
turn
she
saw
an
editor
's
room
,
with
the
name
of
the
journal
printed
in
fat
,
assertive
black
type
.
She
was
wafted
down
long
corridors
of
frosted
glass
—
frosted
glass
,
it
seemed
to
Mary
,
was
inseparably
connected
with
journalism
—
until
she
was
shown
into
a
small
room
containing
a
bare
,
mahogany
table
,
three
chairs
,
and
a
framed
lithograph
of
a
young
person
in
pink
muslin
,
ogling
the
spectator
over
a
diaphanous
fan
.
‘The
editor
,
’
said
the
man
in
a
kind
of
commissionaire
's
uniform
,
who
accompanied
her
,
‘the
editor
is
engaged
on
business
,
but
will
you
kindly
wait
?
’
And
Mary
waited
.
In
the
next
room
she
could
hear
,
in
a
muffled
way
,
the
voices
of
that
functionary
and
his
visitor
.
The
business
,
it
would
seem
,
on
which
they
were
engaged
was
of
a
somewhat
hilarious
nature
,
for
frequent
guffaws
of
laughter
reached
her
,
and
there
was
an
unmistakable
odour
of
cigarettes
.
Ten
minutes
,
fifteen
minutes
,
twenty
minutes
went
slowly
by
.
The
murmur
of
voices
,
the
baritone
laughter
in
the
next
room
,
continued
to
be
audible
.
At
last
,
when
Mary
had
finally
made
up
her
mind
to
go
,
the
door
was
flung
open
,
and
a
young
man
with
a
high
colour
stumbled
out
.
‘Ta-ta
,
old
chap
.
Thanks
,
awfully
.
See
you
at
the
club
to
night
,
’
and
,
bestowing
on
Mary
a
prolonged
stare
,
he
disappeared
down
the
long
glass
corridor
.
‘Will
you
please
come
in
?
’
said
a
rather
affected
voice
,
and
Mary
,
walking
into
the
editorial
sanctum
,
found
herself
opposite
a
well-dressed
,
supercilious-looking
young
man
of
thirty
,
a
man
who
curiously
resembled
all
the
young
men
whom
she
used
to
see
in
the
Park
on
fine
mornings
.
Something
like
a
blush
darkened
his
smooth
cheeks
as
Mary
entered
,
and
the
editor
of
The
Fan
raised
a
pious
prayer
to
the
gods
that
this
apparently
inexperienced
girl
had
not
heard
the
conversation
which
had
been
going
on
for
the
last
twenty
minutes
.
‘I
am
sorry
to
have
kept
you
,
’
he
said
lamely
,
glancing
for
the
first
time
at
the
card
and
letter
,
which
had
been
waiting
at
his
elbow
on
the
table
,
‘but
you
've
no
idea
what
a
fool
that
man
is
.
He
never
told
me
that
a
lady
was
waiting
to
see
me.’
‘I
dare
say
,
’
replied
Mary
a
little
stiffly
,
‘that
you
are
dreadfully
busy.’
‘Oh
,
as
to
that
,
of
course
,
we
're
frightfully
“
rushed
”
—
especially
just
now
,
at
the
middle
of
the
month
.
We
come
out
,
you
see
,
on
the
23d
.
I
'm
most
anxious
,
you
see
,
to
make
The
Fan
a
success
.
I
want
it
to
be
quite
the
smartest
thing
out
,
and
a
real
authority
on
dress
and
fashion
.
As
to
the
dress
part
,
I
'm
not
afraid
of
that
.
I
do
it
all
myself.’
‘Indeed
?
’
said
Mary
,
to
whom
the
young
man
who
spends
his
life
describing
petticoats
was
as
yet
an
unknown
entity
.
She
felt
vaguely
uncomfortable
as
the
supercilious
editor
's
eye
dwelt
upon
her
,
not
feeling
sure
that
he
would
approve
of
the
shape
of
her
sleeves
,
and
being
morally
certain
that
he
was
by
this
time
aware
that
her
gown
was
not
lined
with
silk
.
‘I
came
,
’
said
Mary
,
‘to
ask
—
to
ask
if
you
thought
there
was
anything
I
could
do
for
The
Fan
.’
The
supercilious
editor
pursed
up
his
lips
and
looked
at
Mary
's
sleeves
.
Her
name
,
it
was
obvious
,
carried
no
sort
of
weight
in
the
office
of
The
Fan
magazine
.
‘The
fact
is
,
we
are
inundated
with
stuff
which
is
n't
any
good
to
us
.
We
are
refusing
stuff
every
day
.
What
we
want
would
n't
be
in
your
line
,
I
'm
afraid
.
The
only
thing
I
really
think
of
starting
,
’
he
announced
,
standing
on
the
hearthrug
and
twisting
a
neat
moustache
,
‘is
a
really
good
society
article
.
Only
about
smart
people
,
do
n't
you
know
?
We
do
n't
want
what
the
other
ladies
'
papers
have
got
:
“
Mrs.
Townley
Tompkins
gave
a
most
successful
ball
at
her
beautiful
house
in
Lancaster
Gate
,
or
any
of
those
God-forsaken
places
.
Lady
Jane
Ives
,
Lady
Blaythewaite
—
those
are
the
sort
of
people
.
Really
smart
,
do
n't
you
know
,
and
the
vieile
souche
as
well
.
Now
,
I
should
have
liked
a
smartly
written
account
of
Lady
Jane
Ives
's
party
the
other
night
.
Of
course
,
I
knew
lots
of
people
there
,
but
they
have
n't
got
the
cacoëthes
scribendi
,
do
n't
you
know
?
’
‘I
think
I
could
do
you
that
,
if
you
thought
it
interesting
enough
,
’
said
Mary
,
‘as
I
happened
to
be
there.’
‘Oh
,
you
were
there
?
’
said
the
editor
,
with
rising
respect
in
his
tone
;
and
for
the
first
time
looking
at
the
girl
with
any
interest
,
he
added
:
‘It
's
possible
we
might
arrange
something
;
in
fact
,
we
might
begin
something
this
month
.
We
might
manage
an
article
for
the
next
number
—
something
smart
,
you
know
,
and
just
a
wee
bit
malicious
.
We
'll
call
the
thing
‘Behind
my
Fan
,
’
and
that
'll
give
plenty
of
scope
.
Do
n't
be
afraid
,
Miss
Erle
.
Any
gossip
that
has
n't
got
into
the
papers
,
you
know.’
‘Lady
Jane
Ives
,
now
,
must
be
a
very
interesting
acquaintance
,
’
went
on
the
editor
,
in
deferential
tones
,
‘quite
one
of
the
women
of
the
day
.
I
wonder
if
you
could
get
her
to
be
interviewed
for
The
Fan
?
’
he
added
,
visibly
brightening
.
‘I
'll
ask
her
,
’
said
Mary
,
smiling
.
‘But
I
ought
to
tell
you
that
I
am
not
going
out
much
this
season.’
‘Oh
!
that
do
n't
matter
,
’
said
the
editor
hopefully
.
‘What
we
want
is
somebody
who
really
knows
the
set
.
Little
bits
of
gossip
,
do
n't
you
know
,
that
the
‘lady
journalist’
ca
n't
possibly
get
hold
of
.
Do
you
care
to
try
?
’
‘I
think
I
will.’
‘We
can
do
with
three
columns
a
month
.
The
firm
pays
a
guinea
a
column
.
When
may
I
have
the
pleasure
of
seeing
your
first
article
?
It
would
appear
next
month
if
you
let
us
have
it
by
the
20th
.
Thanks
awfully
.
Good-day.’
And
the
stuffy
,
jolting
omnibus
conveyed
back
to
Bulstrode
Street
a
young
woman
who
was
conscious
neither
of
hunger
,
fatigue
,
nor
rattling
stones
.
This
was
a
beginning
!
Her
pocket
,
in
which
lay
the
cheque
for
two
pounds
two
shillings
,
had
suddenly
acquired
a
special
importance
.
She
had
earned
that
money
herself
;
it
was
the
output
of
her
brain
.
Secretly
she
would
like
to
telegraph
to
Vincent
,
who
was
now
in
New
Zealand
,
but
she
felt
the
impulse
was
a
silly
one
.
She
would
write
by
the
next
mail
.
CHAPTER
XI
THE
WOMAN
WAITS
‘
SAPRISTI
!
’
cried
Alison
,
‘he
's
come
back
,
you
say
?
I
think
I
shall
insist
on
the
marriage
coming
off
at
once.’
‘No
,
you
wo
n't
,
’
answered
Mary
,
reddening
,
‘because
we
've
got
to
earn
enough
between
us
to
set
up
house.’
‘What
a
pity
!
’
rejoined
the
other
girl
.
‘I
'm
in
the
vein
for
weddings
.
I
had
an
interview
yesterday
with
Evelina
's
baby
's
papa
.
Do
n't
stare
,
you
idiot
.
I
've
been
arranging
a
match.’
It
was
a
sultry
day
at
the
end
of
July
,
and
the
two
girls
sat
in
the
dingy
lodgings
in
Bulstrode
Street
.
Vincent
Hemming
had
telegraphed
from
Liverpool
;
he
was
to
be
in
London
that
afternoon
.
‘Alison
!
you
do
n't
mean
to
say
you
—
—
?
’
‘Certainly
.
I
found
the
young
man
open
to
reason
,
especially
when
he
comprehended
that
I
might
be
likely
to
give
Evelina
a
small
dot
,
though
it
took
some
time
to
overcome
his
moral
scruples
—
—
’
‘His
moral
scruples
!
’
ejaculated
Mary
.
‘My
dear
,
you
must
know
that
the
average
man
is
,
in
theory
,
enamoured
of
virtue
,
but
in
practice
his
devotion
usually
takes
the
form
of
insisting
on
that
of
his
female
belongings
—
—
’
‘A
vicarious
offering
to
the
gods
,
’
said
Mary
,
‘which
it
is
to
be
hoped
is
sometimes
efficaciousl’
‘It
's
astonishing
,
’
said
the
elder
girl
thoughtfully
,
‘what
a
lot
of
human
nature
one
sees
down
there
in
Whitechapel.’
‘More
,
I
dare
say
,
than
in
Mayfair.’
‘The
wedding
,
’
observed
Alison
,
‘will
come
off
in
the
autumn
—
I
shall
give
the
bride
away
.
You
may
come
and
look
on
if
you
like.’
‘Poor
little
Evelina
,
’
said
Mary
abstractedly
.
‘Poor
!
’
laughed
Alison
.
‘What
do
you
think
she
asked
for
when
I
told
her
she
might
choose
a
wedding
present
?
A
white
silk
dress
!
She
knew
,
she
said
,
where
she
could
get
one
,
second-hand
,
for
twelve
and
sixpence
,
but
what
she
held
out
for
most
was
a
white
tulle
veil
and
a
wreath
of
orange
blossoms.’
‘The
veil
and
the
orange
blossoms
are
quite
pathetic
,
’
murmured
Mary
,
getting
up
and
pushing
the
window
wide
open
.
There
was
a
long
silence
,
during
which
a
large
bumble-bee
swayed
in
and
buzzed
ponderously
round
the
little
room
.
‘You
ought
now
,
’
said
Alison
,
jumping
up
,
‘to
be
getting
into
your
most
becoming
dress
,
and
a
proper
frame
of
mind
in
which
to
receive
so
estimable
a
young
man
—
—
’
‘Oh
,
do
n't
go
.
It
's
so
dreadful
to
wait
,
all
alone
.
He
ca
n't
be
in
London
till
four
o'clock
,
so
I
do
n't
imagine
I
shall
see
him
till
six
or
seven
,
or
perhaps
not
till
after
dinner.’
‘Ah
,
’
said
Alison
Ives
thoughtfully
,
‘then
you
had
better
come
with
me
.
I
'm
going
to
take
a
lot
of
poor
girls
over
the
National
Gallery
at
three
o'clock.’
‘Oh
,
I
ca
n't
.
It
's
too
far
.
And
he
might
come
while
I
was
out.’
‘And
considering
,
’
laughed
Alison
,
‘that
you
intend
spending
the
rest
of
your
natural
existence
with
Mr.
Hemming
,
that
would
be
nothing
short
of
a
calamity.’
‘You
are
an
unsympathetic
demon
,
and
you
can
be
off
to
your
East-end
young
women
,
’
said
Mary
sternly
.
‘Pooh
,
’
said
Alison
calmly
,
‘I
shall
stay
till
the
last
moment
,
and
give
you
the
benefit
of
my
mature
advice
.
It
's
wonderful
,
’
she
added
,
snatching
up
her
big
Gainsborough
hat
and
putting
it
on
at
an
extraordinary
angle
,
‘how
kind
I
am
to
young
people
.
I
believe
I
've
been
making
a
mistake
all
this
time
.
I
ought
to
have
been
the
mother
of
six
boys
—
for
Heaven
forbid
that
I
should
bring
another
woman
into
the
world.’
‘You
would
have
been
bored
to
death
with
them
,
’
said
Mary
.
‘Nonsense
,
depend
upon
it
,
I
should
have
been
a
pattern
parent
.
All
we
people
make
the
mistake
of
doing
everything
more
or
less
badly
.
Here
are
you
,
’
she
continued
,
taking
up
with
an
impatient
gesture
a
small
book
bound
in
red
calico
,
which
was
lying
on
the
table
,
‘reading
a
ninepenny
translation
of
Epictetus
,
when
I
'll
be
bound
you
ca
n't
make
a
pudding
properly
without
it
“
catching
”
—
or
whatever
the
cook
calls
it.’
‘I
know
I
ca
n't
;
but
it
's
eccentric
—
to
say
the
least
of
it
,
’
rejoined
Mary
,
‘for
a
young
woman
like
you
to
want
to
make
puddings
at
all.’
‘I
suppose
it
is
an
affectation
,
’
said
Alison
candidly
,
fastening
her
velvet
strings
firmly
with
a
diamond
scorpion
,
‘but
it
's
so
much
more
amusing
than
going
to
balls
.
Oh
,
those
old
club
hacks
who
go
out
to
exercise
their
livers
,
and
the
boys
who
dance
till
they
stream
with
perspiration
,
because
they
want
to
make
acquaintances
—
in
society.’
‘It
's
doubtfully
alluring
—
the
London
ball
of
to-day
,
’
assented
Mary
,
‘but
why
go
?
’
‘I
do
n't
,
’
said
Alison
,
‘it
's
what
I
remember
out
of
the
dim
past
.
Well
,
good-bye
,
I
'm
off
to
explain
Mantegna
to
my
girls
.
I
only
hope
they
wo
n't
all
come
in
ostrich
feathers
.
Your
most
becoming
gown
,
remember
,
and
your
most
angelic
manners
,
please
.
This
is
the
supreme
moment
,
remember.’
After
she
had
gone
,
she
put
her
head
in
at
the
door
to
say
—
‘That
baby
of
Evelina
's
makes
my
joy
.
You
never
saw
such
a
dumpling
,
and
it
does
n't
cry
now
.
I
have
it
to
spend
the
day
at
the
flat
,
and
it
crawls
all
over
me
,
and
sticks
its
fat
little
fists
in
my
eye.’
When
the
street
door
had
finally
closed
,
Mary
felt
horribly
restless
.
After
much
inward
debate
,
she
put
on
her
hat
and
went
out
.
Secretly
,
she
would
have
liked
to
go
to
Euston
to
meet
her
lover
,
but
he
had
said
nothing
about
it
,
and
she
thought
it
best
to
wait
.
So
she
walked
to
the
Regent
's
Park
,
and
there
,
in
the
trim
flower-garden
,
where
the
avenue
of
chestnuts
was
making
long
shadows
on
the
neatly-swept
paths
,
Mary
sat
down
and
waited
.
It
was
high
midsummer
now
;
there
was
a
velvety
smoothness
on
the
trim
lawns
,
the
green
light
filtered
through
a
canopy
of
broad
chestnut
leaves
,
and
the
beds
were
odorous
with
heliotrope
,
purple
with
pansies
,
and
aglow
with
geraniums
.
Half
past
four
!
Now
perhaps
the
train
was
thundering
into
Euston
Station
.
Vincent
Hemming
was
getting
out
of
his
compartment
,
collecting
his
manifold
baggage
,
hailing
a
cab
.
London
was
the
richer
for
one
important
person
;
London
contained
her
lover
!
The
people
who
haunt
the
parks
on
fine
afternoons
were
there
as
usual
,
but
to-day
they
seized
her
imagination
.
There
was
a
young
woman
with
restless
eyes
and
a
hard
mouth
,
keeping
a
rendezvous
with
a
lover
who
had
not
yet
appeared
;
a
nurse
or
two
with
a
swarm
of
children
from
the
surrounding
Georgian
terraces
,
racing
and
squealing
and
looking
like
white
rabbits
with
their
pink
noses
and
creamy
boots
,
while
,
erect
and
military
,
the
figure
of
a
park-keeper
in
his
gilt
buttons
and
his
peaked
cap
gave
an
official
air
to
the
trim
paths
.
Yes
,
he
was
driving
now
to
his
chambers
in
the
Temple
;
passing
,
actually
rolling
on
London
streets
,
in
a
London
cab
,
not
so
very
far
from
where
she
sat
.
It
seemed
incredible
,
and
yet
it
was
true
.
The
only
