Night and Day Part 4

Denham seemed to be pondering this statement of Rodney's, but, as a matter of fact, he was hardly conscious of Rodney and his revelations, and was only concerned to make him mention Katharine again before they reached the lamp-post.

'Who's taken you in now?' he asked. 'Katharine Hilbery?'

Rodney stopped and once more began beating a kind of rhythm, as if he were marking a phrase in a symphony, upon the smooth stone bal.u.s.trade of the Embankment.

'Katharine Hilbery,' he repeated, with a curious little chuckle. 'No, Denham, I have no illusions about that young woman. I think I made that plain to her to-night. But don't run away with a false impression,' he continued eagerly, turning and linking his arm through Denham's, as though to prevent him from escaping; and, thus compelled, Denham pa.s.sed the monitory lamp-post, to which, in pa.s.sing, he breathed an excuse, for how could he break away when Rodney's arm was actually linked in his? 'You must not think that I have any bitterness against her-far from it. It's not altogether her fault, poor girl. She lives, you know, one of those odious, self-centred lives-at least, I think them odious for a woman-feeding her wits upon everything, having control of everything, getting far too much her own way at home-spoilt, in a sense, feeling that every one is at her feet, and so not realizing how she hurts-that is, how rudely she behaves to people who haven't all her advantages. Still, to do her justice, she's no fool,' he added, as if to warn Denham not to take any liberties. 'She has taste. She has sense. She can understand you when you talk to her. But she's a woman, and there's an end of it,' he added, with another little chuckle, and dropped Denham's arm.

And did you tell her all this to-night?' Denham asked.

'Oh dear me, no. I should never think of telling Katharine the truth about herself. That wouldn't do at all. One has to be in an att.i.tude of adoration in order to get on with Katharine.'

'Now I've learnt that she's refused to marry him why don't I go home?' Denham thought to himself. But he went on walking beside Rodney, and for a time they did not speak, though Rodney hummed s.n.a.t.c.hes of a tune out of an opera by Mozart.u A feeling of contempt and liking combine very naturally in the mind of one to whom another has just spoken unpremeditatedly, revealing rather more of his private feelings than he intended to reveal. Denham began to wonder what sort of person Rodney was, and at the same time Rodney began to think about Denham. A feeling of contempt and liking combine very naturally in the mind of one to whom another has just spoken unpremeditatedly, revealing rather more of his private feelings than he intended to reveal. Denham began to wonder what sort of person Rodney was, and at the same time Rodney began to think about Denham.

'You're a slave like me, I suppose?' he asked.

'A solicitor, yes.'

'I sometimes wonder why we don't chuck it. Why don't you emigrate, Denham? I should have thought that would suit you.'

'I've a family.'

'I'm often on the point of going myself. And then I know I couldn't live without this'-and he waved his hand towards the City of London,v which wore, at this moment, the appearance of a town cut out of grey-blue cardboard, and pasted flat against the sky, which was of a deeper blue. which wore, at this moment, the appearance of a town cut out of grey-blue cardboard, and pasted flat against the sky, which was of a deeper blue.

'There are one or two people I'm fond of, and there's a little good music, and a few pictures, now and then-just enough to keep one dangling about here. Ah, but I couldn't live with savages! Are you fond of books? Music? Pictures? D'you care at all for first editions? I've got a few nice things up here, things I pick up cheap, for I can't afford to give what they ask.'

They had reached a small court of high eighteenth-century houses, in one of which Rodney had his rooms. They climbed a very steep staircase, through whose uncurtained windows the moonlight fell, illuminating the banisters with their twisted pillars, and the piles of plates set on the window-sills, and jars half-full of milk. Rodney's rooms were small, but the sitting-room window looked out into a courtyard, with its flagged pavement, and its single tree, and across to the flat red-brick fronts of the opposite houses, which would not have surprised Dr Johnson,w if he had come out of his grave for a turn in the moonlight. Rodney lit his lamp, pulled his curtains, offered Denham a chair, and, flinging the ma.n.u.script of his paper on the Elizabethan use of Metaphor on to the table, exclaimed: if he had come out of his grave for a turn in the moonlight. Rodney lit his lamp, pulled his curtains, offered Denham a chair, and, flinging the ma.n.u.script of his paper on the Elizabethan use of Metaphor on to the table, exclaimed: 'Oh dear me, what a waste of time! But it's over now, and so we may think no more about it.'

He then busied himself very dexterously in lighting a fire, producing gla.s.ses, whisky, a cake, and cups and saucers. He put on a faded crimson dressing-gown, and a pair of red slippers, and advanced to Denham with a tumbler in one hand and a well-burnished book in the other.

'The Baskerville Congreve,'x said Rodney, offering it to his guest. 'I couldn't read him in a cheap edition.' said Rodney, offering it to his guest. 'I couldn't read him in a cheap edition.'

When he was seen thus among his books and his valuables, amiably anxious to make his visitor comfortable, and moving about with something of the dexterity and grace of a Persian cat, Denham relaxed his critical att.i.tude, and felt more at home with Rodney than he would have done with many men better known to him. Rodney's room was the room of a person who cherishes a great many personal tastes, guarding them from the rough blasts of the public with scrupulous attention. His papers and his books rose in jagged mounds on table and floor, round which he skirted with nervous care lest his dressing-gown might disarrange them ever so slightly. On a chair stood a stack of photographs of statues and pictures, which it was his habit to exhibit, one by one, for the s.p.a.ce of a day or two. The books on his shelves were as orderly as regiments of soldiers, and the backs of them shone like so many bronze beetle-wings; though, if you took one from its place you saw a shabbier volume behind it, since s.p.a.ce was limited. An oval Venetian mirror stood above the fireplace, and reflected duskily in its spotted depths the faint yellow and crimson of a jarful of tulips which stood among the letters and pipes and cigarettes upon the mantelpiece. A small piano occupied a comer of the room, with the score of 'Don Giovanni'y open upon the bracket. open upon the bracket.

'Well, Rodney,' said Denham, as he filled his pipe and looked about him, 'this is all very nice and comfortable.'

Rodney turned his head half round and smiled, with the pride of a proprietor, and then prevented himself from smiling.

'Tolerable,' he muttered.

'But I dare say it's just as well that you have to earn your own living.'

'If you mean that I shouldn't do anything good with leisure if I had it, I dare say you're right. But I should be ten times as happy with my whole day to spend as I liked.'

'I doubt that,' Denham replied.

They sat silent, and the smoke from their pipes joined amicably in a blue vapour above their heads.

'I could spend three hours every day reading Shakespeare,' Rodney remarked. 'And there's music and pictures, let alone the society of the people one likes.'

'You'd be bored to death in a year's time.'

'Oh, I grant you I should be bored if I did nothing. But I should write plays.'

'Hm!'

'I should write plays,' he repeated. 'I've written three-quarters of one already, and I'm only waiting for a holiday to finish it. And it's not bad-no, some of it's really rather nice.'

The question arose in Denham's mind whether he should ask to see this play, as, no doubt, he was expected to do. He looked rather stealthily at Rodney, who was tapping the coal nervously with a poker, and quivering almost physically, so Denham thought, with desire to talk about this play of his, and vanity unrequited and urgent. He seemed very much at Denham's mercy, and Denham could not help liking him, partly on that account.

'Well, ... will you let me see the play?' Denham asked, and Rodney looked immediately appeased, but, nevertheless, he sat silent for a moment, holding the poker perfectly upright in the air, regarding it with his rather prominent eyes, and opening his lips and shutting them again.

'Do you really care for this kind of thing?' he asked at length, in a different tone of voice from that in which he had been speaking. And, without waiting for an answer, he went on, rather querulously: 'Very few people care for poetry. I dare say it bores you.'

'Perhaps,' Denham remarked.

'Well, I'll lend it you,' Rodney announced, putting down the poker.

As he moved to fetch the play, Denham stretched a hand to the bookcase beside him, and took down the first volume which his fingers touched. It happened to be a small and very lovely edition of Sir Thomas Browne,z containing the 'Urn Burial', the 'Hydriotaphia', the 'Quincunx Confuted', and the 'Garden of Cyrus', and, opening it at a pa.s.sage which he knew very nearly by heart, Denham began to read and, for some time, continued to read. containing the 'Urn Burial', the 'Hydriotaphia', the 'Quincunx Confuted', and the 'Garden of Cyrus', and, opening it at a pa.s.sage which he knew very nearly by heart, Denham began to read and, for some time, continued to read.

Rodney resumed his seat, with his ma.n.u.script on his knee, and from time to time he glanced at Denham, and then joined his finger-tips and crossed his thin legs over the fender, as if he experienced a good deal of pleasure. At length Denham shut the book, and stood, with his back to the fireplace, occasionally making an inarticulate humming sound which seemed to refer to Sir Thomas Browne. He put his hat on his head, and stood over Rodney, who still lay stretched back in his chair, with his toes within the fender.

'I shall look in again some time,' Denham remarked, upon which Rodney held up his hand, containing his ma.n.u.script, without saying anything except-'If you like.'

Denham took the ma.n.u.script and went. Two days later he was much surprised to find a thin parcel on his breakfast-plate, which, on being opened, revealed the very copy of Sir Thomas Browne which he had studied so intently in Rodney's rooms. From sheer laziness he returned no thanks, but he thought of Rodney from time to time with interest, disconnecting him from Katharine, and meant to go round one evening and smoke a pipe with him. It pleased Rodney thus to give away whatever his friends genuinely admired. His library was constantly being diminished.

CHAPTER VI.

OF ALL THE HOURS of an ordinary working week-day, which are the pleasantest to look forward to and to look back upon? If a single instance is of use in framing a theory, it may be said that the minutes between nine-twenty-five and nine-thirty in the morning had a singular charm for Mary Datchet. She spent them in a very enviable frame of mind; her contentment was almost unalloyed. High in the air as her flat was, some beams from the morning sun reached her even in November, striking straight at curtain, chair, and carpet, and painting there three bright, true s.p.a.ces of green, blue, and purple, upon which the eye rested with a pleasure which gave physical warmth to the body.

There were few mornings when Mary did not look up, as she bent to lace her boots, and as she followed the yellow rod from curtain to breakfast-table she usually breathed some sigh of thankfulness that her life provided her with such moments of pure enjoyment. She was robbing no one of anything, and yet, to get so much pleasure from simple things, such as eating one's breakfast alone in a room which had nice colours in it, clean from the skirting of the boards to the corners of the ceiling, seemed to suit her so thoroughly that she used at first to hunt about for some one to apologize to, or for some flaw in the situation. She had now been six months in London, and she could find no flaw, but that, as she invariably concluded by the time her boots were laced, was solely and entirely due to the fact that she had her work. Every day, as she stood with her dispatch-box in her hand at the door of her flat, and gave one look back into the room to see that everything was straight before she left, she said to herself that she was very glad that she was going to leave it all, that to have sat there all day long, in the enjoyment of leisure, would have been intolerable.

Out in the street she liked to think herself one of the workers who, at this hour, take their way in rapid single file along all the broad pavements of the city, with their heads slightly lowered, as if all their effort were to follow each other as closely as might be; so that Mary used to figure to herself a straight rabbit-run worn by their unswerving feet upon the pavement. But she liked to pretend that she was indistinguishable from the rest, and that when a wet day drove her to the Underground or omnibus, she gave and took her share of crowd and wet with clerks and typists and commercial men, and shared with them the serious business of winding-up the world to tick for, another four-and-twenty hours.

Thus thinking, on the particular morning in question, she made her way across Lincoln's Inn Fields and up Kingsway, and so through Southampton Row until she reached her office in Russell Square.1 Now and then she would pause and look into the window of some bookseller or flower shop, where, at this early hour, the goods were being arranged, and empty gaps behind the plate gla.s.s revealed a state of undress. Mary felt kindly disposed towards the shopkeepers, and hoped that they would trick the midday public into purchasing, for at this hour of the morning she ranged herself entirely on the side of the shopkeepers and bank clerks, and regarded all who slept late and had money to spend as her enemy and natural prey. And directly she had crossed the road at Holborn, her thoughts all came naturally and regularly to roost upon her work, and she forgot that she was, properly speaking, an amateur worker, whose services were unpaid, and could hardly be said to wind the world up for its daily task, since the world, so far, had shown very little desire to take the boons which Mary's society for woman's suffrage had offered it. Now and then she would pause and look into the window of some bookseller or flower shop, where, at this early hour, the goods were being arranged, and empty gaps behind the plate gla.s.s revealed a state of undress. Mary felt kindly disposed towards the shopkeepers, and hoped that they would trick the midday public into purchasing, for at this hour of the morning she ranged herself entirely on the side of the shopkeepers and bank clerks, and regarded all who slept late and had money to spend as her enemy and natural prey. And directly she had crossed the road at Holborn, her thoughts all came naturally and regularly to roost upon her work, and she forgot that she was, properly speaking, an amateur worker, whose services were unpaid, and could hardly be said to wind the world up for its daily task, since the world, so far, had shown very little desire to take the boons which Mary's society for woman's suffrage had offered it.aa She was thinking all the way up Southampton Row of notepaper and foolscap,ab and how an economy in the use of paper might be effected (without, of course, hurting Mrs Seal's feelings), for she was certain that the great organizers always pounce, to begin with, upon trifles like these, and build up their triumphant reforms upon a basis of absolute solidity; and, without acknowledging it for a moment, Mary Datchet was determined to be a great organizer, and had already doomed her society to reconstruction of the most radical kind. Once or twice lately, it is true, she had started, broad awake, before turning into Russell Square, and denounced herself rather sharply for being already in a groove, capable, that, is, of thinking the same thoughts every morning at the same hour, so that the chestnut-coloured brick of the Russell Square houses had some curious connexion with her thoughts about office economy, and served also as a sign that she should get into trim for meeting Mr Clacton, or Mrs Seal, or whoever might be beforehand with her at the office. Having no religious belief, she was the more conscientious about her life, examining her position from time to time very seriously, and nothing annoyed her more than to find one of these bad habits nibbling away unheeded at the precious substance. What was the good, after all, of being a woman if one didn't keep fresh, and cram one's life with all sorts of views and experiments? Thus she always gave herself a little shake, as she turned the corner, and, as often as not, reached her own door whistling a s.n.a.t.c.h of a Somersetshire and how an economy in the use of paper might be effected (without, of course, hurting Mrs Seal's feelings), for she was certain that the great organizers always pounce, to begin with, upon trifles like these, and build up their triumphant reforms upon a basis of absolute solidity; and, without acknowledging it for a moment, Mary Datchet was determined to be a great organizer, and had already doomed her society to reconstruction of the most radical kind. Once or twice lately, it is true, she had started, broad awake, before turning into Russell Square, and denounced herself rather sharply for being already in a groove, capable, that, is, of thinking the same thoughts every morning at the same hour, so that the chestnut-coloured brick of the Russell Square houses had some curious connexion with her thoughts about office economy, and served also as a sign that she should get into trim for meeting Mr Clacton, or Mrs Seal, or whoever might be beforehand with her at the office. Having no religious belief, she was the more conscientious about her life, examining her position from time to time very seriously, and nothing annoyed her more than to find one of these bad habits nibbling away unheeded at the precious substance. What was the good, after all, of being a woman if one didn't keep fresh, and cram one's life with all sorts of views and experiments? Thus she always gave herself a little shake, as she turned the corner, and, as often as not, reached her own door whistling a s.n.a.t.c.h of a Somersetshireac ballad. ballad.

The suffrage office was at the top of one of the large Russell Square houses, which had once been lived in by a great city merchant and his family, and was now let out in slices to a number of societies which displayed a.s.sorted initials upon doors of ground gla.s.s, and kept, each of them, a typewriter which clicked busily all day long. The old house, with its great stone staircase, echoed hollowly to the sound of typewriters and of errand-boys from ten to six. The noise of different typewriters already at work, disseminating their views upon the protection of native races, or the value of cereals as foodstuffs, quickened Mary's steps, and she always ran up the last flight of steps which led to her own landing, at whatever hour she came, so as to get her typewriter to take its place in compet.i.tion with the rest.

She sat herself down to her letters, and very soon all these speculations were forgotten, and the two lines drew themselves between her eyebrows, as the contents of the letters, the office furniture, and the sounds of activity in the next room gradually a.s.serted their sway upon her. By eleven o'clock the atmosphere of concentration was running so strongly in one direction that any thought of a different order could hardly have survived its birth more than a moment or so. The task which lay before her was to organize a series of entertainments, the profits of which were to benefit the society, which drooped for want of funds. It was her first attempt at organization on a large scale, and she meant to achieve something remarkable. She meant to use the c.u.mbrous machine to pick out this, that, and the other interesting person from the muddle of the world, and to set them for a week in a pattern which must catch the eyes of Cabinet Ministers, and the eyes once caught, the old arguments were to be delivered with unexampled originality. Such was the scheme as a whole; and in contemplation of it she would become quite flushed and excited, and have to remind herself of all the details that intervened between her and success.

The door would open and Mr Clacton would come in to search for a certain leaflet buried beneath a pyramid of leaflets. He was a thin, sandy-haired man of about thirty-five, spoke with a c.o.c.kney accent,ad and had about him a frugal look, as if nature had not dealt generously with him in any way, which, naturally, prevented him from dealing generously with other people. When he had found his leaflet, and offered a few jocular hints upon keeping papers in order, the typewriting would stop abruptly, and Mrs Seal would burst into the room with a letter which needed explanation in her hand. This was a more serious interruption than the other, because she never knew exactly what she wanted, and half a dozen requests would bolt from her, no one of which was clearly stated. Dressed in plum-coloured velveteen, with short, grey hair, and a face that seemed permanently flushed with philanthropic enthusiasm, she was always in a hurry, and always in some disorder. She wore two crucifixes, which got themselves entangled in a heavy gold chain upon her breast, and seemed to Mary expressive of her mental ambiguity. Only her vast enthusiasm and her worship of Miss Markham, one of the pioneers of the society, kept her in her place, for which she had no sound qualification. and had about him a frugal look, as if nature had not dealt generously with him in any way, which, naturally, prevented him from dealing generously with other people. When he had found his leaflet, and offered a few jocular hints upon keeping papers in order, the typewriting would stop abruptly, and Mrs Seal would burst into the room with a letter which needed explanation in her hand. This was a more serious interruption than the other, because she never knew exactly what she wanted, and half a dozen requests would bolt from her, no one of which was clearly stated. Dressed in plum-coloured velveteen, with short, grey hair, and a face that seemed permanently flushed with philanthropic enthusiasm, she was always in a hurry, and always in some disorder. She wore two crucifixes, which got themselves entangled in a heavy gold chain upon her breast, and seemed to Mary expressive of her mental ambiguity. Only her vast enthusiasm and her worship of Miss Markham, one of the pioneers of the society, kept her in her place, for which she had no sound qualification.

So the morning wore on, and the pile of letters grew, and Mary felt, at last, that she was the centre ganglion of a very fine network of nerves which fell over England, and one of these days, when she touched the heart of the system, would begin feeling and rushing together and emitting their splendid blaze of revolutionary fireworks-for some such metaphor represents what she felt about her work, when her brain had been heated by three hours of application.

Shortly before one o'clock Mr Clacton and Mrs Seal desisted from their labours, and the old joke about luncheon, which came out regularly at this hour, was repeated with scarcely any variation of words. Mr Clacton patronized a vegetarian restaurant; Mrs Seal brought sandwiches, which she ate beneath the plane-trees in Russell Square; while Mary generally went to a gaudy establishment, upholstered in red plush, near by, where, much to the vegetarian's disapproval, you could buy steak, two inches thick, or a roast section of fowl, swimming in a pewter dish.

'The bare branches against the sky do one so much good,' good,' Mrs Seal a.s.serted, looking out into the Square. Mrs Seal a.s.serted, looking out into the Square.

'But one can't lunch off trees, Sally,' said Mary.

'I confess I don't know how you manage it, Miss Datchet,' Mr Clacton remarked. 'I should sleep all the afternoon, I know, if I took a heavy meal in the middle of the day.'

'What's the very latest thing in literature?' Mary asked, good-humouredly pointing to the yellow-covered volume beneath Mr Clacton's arm, for he invariably read some new French author at lunch-time, or squeezed in a visit to a picture gallery, balancing his social work with an ardent culture of which he was secretly proud, as Mary had very soon divined.

So they parted and Mary walked away, wondering if they guessed that she really wanted to get away from them, and supposing that they had not quite reached that degree of subtlety. She bought herself an evening paper, which she read as she ate, looking over the top of it again and again at the queer people who were buying cakes or imparting their secrets, until some young woman whom she knew came in, and she called out, 'Eleanor, come and sit by me,' and they finished their lunch together, parting on the strip of pavement among the different lines of traffic with a pleasant feeling that they were stepping once more into their separate places in the great and eternally moving pattern of human life.

But, instead of going straight back to the office to-day, Mary turned into the British Museum, and strolled down the gallery with the shapes of stone until she found an empty seat directly beneath the gaze of the Elgin marbles. She looked at them, and seemed, as usual, borne up on some wave of exaltation and emotion, by which her life at once became solemn and beautiful-an impression which was due as much, perhaps, to the solitude and chill and silence of the gallery as to the actual beauty of the statues. One must suppose, at least, that her emotions were not purely aesthetic, because, after she had gazed at the Ulysses2 for a minute or two, she began to think about Ralph Denham. So secure did she feel with these silent shapes that she almost yielded to an impulse to say 'I am in love with you' aloud. The presence of this immense and enduring beauty made her almost alarmingly conscious of her desire, and at the same time proud of a feeling which did not display anything like the same proportions when she was going about her daily work. for a minute or two, she began to think about Ralph Denham. So secure did she feel with these silent shapes that she almost yielded to an impulse to say 'I am in love with you' aloud. The presence of this immense and enduring beauty made her almost alarmingly conscious of her desire, and at the same time proud of a feeling which did not display anything like the same proportions when she was going about her daily work.

She repressed her impulse to speak aloud, and rose and wandered about rather aimlessly among the statues until she found herself in another gallery devoted to engraved obelisks and winged a.s.syrian bulls,3 and her emotion took another turn. She began to picture herself travelling with Ralph in a land where these monsters were couchant and her emotion took another turn. She began to picture herself travelling with Ralph in a land where these monsters were couchantae in the sand. 'For,' she thought to herself, as she gazed fixedly at some information printed behind a piece of gla.s.s, 'the wonderful thing about you is that you're ready for anything; you're not in the least conventional, like most clever men.' in the sand. 'For,' she thought to herself, as she gazed fixedly at some information printed behind a piece of gla.s.s, 'the wonderful thing about you is that you're ready for anything; you're not in the least conventional, like most clever men.'

And she conjured up a scene of herself on a camel's back, in the desert, while Ralph commanded a whole tribe of natives.

'That is what you can do,' she went on, moving on to the next statue. 'You always make people do what you want.'

A glow spread over the spirit, and filled her eyes with brightness. Nevertheless, before she left the Museum she was very far from saying, even in the privacy of her own mind, 'I am in love with you,' and that sentence might very well never have framed itself. She was, indeed, rather annoyed with herself for having allowed such an ill-considered breach of her reserve, weakening her powers of resistance, she felt, should this impulse return again. For, as she walked along the street to her office, the force of all her customary objections to being in love with any one overcame her. She did not want to marry at all. It seemed to her that there was something amateurish in bringing love into touch with a perfectly straight-forward friendship, such as hers was with Ralph, which, for two years now, had based itself upon common interests in impersonal topics, such as the housing of the poor, or the taxation of land values. af af But the afternoon spirit differed intrinsically from the morning spirit. Mary found herself watching the flight of a bird, or making drawings of the branches of the plane-trees upon her blotting-paper. People came in to see Mr Clacton on business, and a seductive smell of cigarette smoke issued from his room. Mrs Seal wandered about with newspaper cuttings, which seemed to her either 'quite splendid' or 'really too bad for words'. She used to paste these into books, or send them to her friends, having first drawn a broad bar in blue pencil down the margin, a proceeding which signified equally and indistinguishably the depths of her reprobation or the heights of her approval.

About four o'clock on that same afternoon Katharine Hilbery was walking up Kingsway. The question of tea presented itself. The street lamps were being lit already, and as she stood still for a moment beneath one of them, she tried to think of some neighbouring drawing-room where there would be firelight and talk congenial to her mood. That mood, owing to the spinning traffic and the evening veil of unreality, was ill-adapted to her home surroundings. Perhaps, on the whole, a shop was the best place in which to preserve this queer sense of heightened existence. At the same time she wished to talk. Remembering Mary Datchet and her repeated invitations, she crossed the road, turned into Russell Square, and peered about, seeking for numbers with a sense of adventure that was out of all proportion to the deed itself. She found herself in a dimly lighted hall, unguarded by a porter, and pushed open the first swing door. But the office-boy had never heard of Miss Datchet. Did she belong to the S.R.F.R.? Katharine shook her head with a smile of dismay. A voice from within shouted, 'No. The S.G.S.ag-top floor.'

Katharine mounted past innumerable gla.s.s doors, with initials on them, and became steadily more and more doubtful of the wisdom of her venture. At the top she paused for a moment to breathe and collect herself. She heard the typewriter and formal professional voices inside, not belonging, she thought, to any one she had ever spoken to. She touched the bell, and the door was opened almost immediately by Mary herself. Her face had to change its expression entirely when she saw Katharine.

'You!' she exclaimed. 'We thought you were the printer.' Still holding the door open, she called back, 'No, Mr Clacton, it's not Penningtons. I should ring them up again-double three double eight, Central. Well, this is a surprise. Come in,' she added. 'You're just in time for tea.'

The light of relief shone in Mary's eyes. The boredom of the afternoon was dissipated at once, and she was glad that Katharine had found them in a momentary press of activity, owing to the failure of the printer to send back certain proofs.

The unshaded electric light shining upon the table covered with papers dazed Katharine for a moment. After the confusion of her twilight walk, and her random thoughts, life in this small room appeared extremely concentrated and bright. She turned instinctively to look out of the window, which was uncurtained, but Mary immediately recalled her.

'It was very clever of you to find your way,' she said, and Katharine wondered, as she stood there, feeling, for the moment, entirely detached and unabsorbed, why she had come. She looked, indeed, to Mary's eyes strangely out of place in the office. Her figure in the long cloak, which took deep folds, and her face, which was composed into a mask of sensitive apprehension, disturbed Mary for a moment with a sense of the presence of some one who was of another world, and, therefore, subversive of her world. She became immediately anxious that Katharine should be impressed by the importance of her world, and hoped that neither Mrs Seal nor Mr Clacton would appear until the impression of importance had been received. But in this she was disappointed. Mrs Seal burst into the room holding a kettle in her hand, which she set upon the stove, and then, with inefficient haste, she set light to the gas, which flared up, exploded, and went out.

'Always the way, always the way,' she muttered. 'Kit Markham is the only person who knows how to deal with the thing.'

Mary had to go to her help, and together they spread the table, and apologized for the disparity between the cups and the plainness of the food.

'If we had known Miss Hilbery was coming, we should have bought a cake,' said Mary, upon which Mrs Seal looked at Katharine for the first time, suspiciously, because she was a person who needed cake.

Here Mr Clacton opened the door, and came in, holding a typewritten letter in his hand, which he was reading aloud.

'Salford's affiliated,'4 he said. he said.

'Well done, Salford!' Mrs Seal exclaimed enthusiastically, thumping the teapot which she held upon the table, in token of applause.

'Yes, these provincial centres seem to be coming into line at last,' said Mr Clacton, and then Mary introduced him to Miss Hilbery, and he asked her, in a very formal manner, if she were interested 'in our work'.

'And the proofs still not come?' said Mrs Seal, putting both her elbows on the table, and propping her chin on her hands, as Mary began to pour out tea. 'It's too bad-too bad. At this rate we shall miss the country post. Which reminds me, Mr Clacton, don't you think we should circularize the provinces with Partridge's last speech? What? You've not read it? Oh, it's the best thing they've had in the House this Session.5 Even the Prime Minister-' Even the Prime Minister-'

But Mary cut her short.

'We don't allow shop at tea, Sally,' she said firmly. 'We fine her a penny each time she forgets, and the fines go to buying a plum cake,' she explained, seeking to draw Katharine into the community. She had given up all hope of impressing her.

'I'm sorry, I'm sorry,' Mrs Seal apologized. 'It's my misfortune to be an enthusiast,' she said, turning to Katharine. 'My father's daughter could hardly be anything else. I think I've been on as many committees as most people. Waifs and Strays, Rescue Work, Church Work, C.O.S.ah-local branch-besides the usual civic duties which fall to one as a householder. But I've given them all up for our work here, and I don't regret it for a second,' she added. 'This is the root question, I feel; until women have votes-'

'It'll be sixpence, at least, Sally,' said Mary, bringing her fist down on the table. 'And we're all sick to death of women and their votes.'

Mrs Seal looked for a moment as though she could hardly believe her ears, and made a deprecating 'tut-tut-tut' in her throat, looking alternately at Katharine and Mary, and shaking her head as she did so. Then she remarked, rather confidentially to Katharine, with a little nod in Mary's direction: 'She's doing more for the cause than any of us. She's giving her youth-for, alas! when I was young there were domestic circ.u.mstances-' she sighed, and stopped short.

Mr Clacton hastily reverted to the joke about luncheon, and explained how Mrs Seal fed on a bag of biscuits under the trees, whatever the weather might be, rather, Katharine thought, as though Mrs Seal were a pet dog who had convenient tricks.

'Yes, I took my little bag into the square,' said Mrs Seal, with the self-conscious guilt of a child owning some fault to its elders. 'It was really very sustaining, and the bare boughs against the sky do one so much good. good. But I shall have to give up going into the square,' she proceeded, wrinkling her forehead. 'The injustice of it! Why should I have a beautiful square all to myself, when poor women who need rest have nowhere at all to sit?' She looked fiercely at Katharine, giving her short locks a little shake. 'It's dreadful what a tyrant one still is, in spite of all one's efforts. One tries to lead a decent life, but one can't. Of course, directly one thinks of it, one sees that But I shall have to give up going into the square,' she proceeded, wrinkling her forehead. 'The injustice of it! Why should I have a beautiful square all to myself, when poor women who need rest have nowhere at all to sit?' She looked fiercely at Katharine, giving her short locks a little shake. 'It's dreadful what a tyrant one still is, in spite of all one's efforts. One tries to lead a decent life, but one can't. Of course, directly one thinks of it, one sees that all all squares should be open to squares should be open to every one. every one. Is there any society with that object, Mr Clacton? If not, there should be, surely.' Is there any society with that object, Mr Clacton? If not, there should be, surely.'

A most excellent object,' said Mr Clacton in his professional manner. At the same time, one must deplore the ramification of organizations, Mrs Seal. So much excellent effort thrown away, not to speak of pounds, shillings, and pence. Now how many organizations of a philanthropic nature do you suppose there are in the City of London itself, Miss Hilbery?' he added, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g his mouth into a queer little smile, as if to show that the question had its frivolous side.

Katharine smiled too. Her unlikeness to the rest of them had, by this time, penetrated to Mr Clacton, who was not naturally observant, and he was wondering who she was; this same unlikeness had subtly stimulated Mrs Seal to try and make a convert of her. Mary, too, looked at her almost as if she begged her to make things easy. For Katharine had shown no disposition to make things easy. She had scarcely spoken, and her silence, though grave and even thoughtful, seemed to Mary the silence of one who criticizes.

'Well, there are more in this house than I'd any notion of,' she said. 'On the ground floor you protect natives, on the next you emigrate women and tell people to eat nuts-'

'Why do you say that "we" "we" do these things?' Mary interposed, rather sharply. 'We're not responsible for all the cranks who choose to lodge in the same house with us.' do these things?' Mary interposed, rather sharply. 'We're not responsible for all the cranks who choose to lodge in the same house with us.'

Mr Clacton cleared his throat and looked at each of the young ladies in turn. He was a good deal struck by the appearance and manner of Miss Hilbery, which seemed to him to place her among those cultivated and luxurious people of whom he used to dream. Mary, on the other hand, was more of his own sort, and a little too much inclined to order him about. He picked up crumbs of dry biscuit and put them into his mouth with incredible rapidity.

'You don't belong to our society, then?' said Mrs Seal.

'No, I'm afraid I don't,' said Katharine, with such ready candour that Mrs Seal was nonplussed, and stared at her with a puzzled expression, as if she could not cla.s.sify her among the varieties of human beings known to her.

'But surely-' she began.

'Mrs Seal is an enthusiast in these matters,' said Mr Clacton, almost apologetically. 'We have to remind her sometimes that others have a right to their views even if they differ from our own ... Punch Punchai has a very funny picture this week, about a Suffragist and an agricultural labourer. Have you seen this week's has a very funny picture this week, about a Suffragist and an agricultural labourer. Have you seen this week's Punch, Punch, Miss Datchet?' Miss Datchet?'

Mary laughed, and said 'No.'

Mr Clacton then told them the substance of the joke, which, however, depended a good deal for its success upon the expression which the artist had put into the people's faces. Mrs Seal sat all the time perfectly grave. Directly he had done speaking she burst out: 'But surely, if you care about the welfare of your s.e.x at all, you must wish them to have the vote?'

'I never said I didn't wish them to have the vote,' Katharine protested.

'Then why aren't you a member of our society?' Mrs Seal demanded.

Katharine stirred her spoon round and round, stared into the swirl of the tea, and remained silent. Mr Clacton, meanwhile, framed a question which, after a moment's hesitation, he put to Katharine.

'Are you in any way related, I wonder, to the poet Alardyce? His daughter, I believe, married a Mr Hilbery.'

'Yes; I'm the poet's granddaughter,' said Katharine, with a little sigh, after a pause; and for a moment they were all silent.

'The poet's granddaughter!' Mrs Seal repeated, half to herself, with a shake of her head, as if that explained what was otherwise inexplicable.

The light kindled in Mr Clacton's eye.