As the streets that lead from the Strand to the Embankmentare very narrow, it is better not to walk down them arm-in-arm.

　　If you persist, lawyers' clerks will have to make flying leapsinto the mud; young lady typists will have to fidget behind you.

　　In the streets of London where beauty goes unregarded, eccentricitymust pay the penalty, and it is better not to be very tall,to wear a long blue cloak, or to beat the air with your left hand.

　　One afternoon in the beginning of October when the traffic wasbecoming brisk a tall man strode along the edge of the pavementwith a lady on his arm. Angry glances struck upon their backs.

　　The small, agitated figures--for in comparison with this couple mostpeople looked small--decorated with fountain pens, and burdened withdespatch-boxes, had appointments to keep, and drew a weekly salary,so that there was some reason for the unfriendly stare which wasbestowed upon Mr. Ambrose's height and upon Mrs. Ambrose's cloak.

　　But some enchantment had put both man and woman beyond the reach of maliceand unpopularity. In his guess one might guess from the moving lipsthat it was thought; and in hers from the eyes fixed stonily straightin front of her at a level above the eyes of most that it was sorrow.

　　It was only by scorning all she met that she kept herself from tears,and the friction of people brushing past her was evidently painful.

　　After watching the traffic on the Embankment for a minute or twowith a stoical gaze she twitched her husband's sleeve, and theycrossed between the swift discharge of motor cars. When they weresafe on the further side, she gently withdrew her arm from his,allowing her mouth at the same time to relax, to tremble; then tearsrolled down, and leaning her elbows on the balustrade, she shieldedher face from the curious. Mr. Ambrose attempted consolation;he patted her shoulder; but she showed no signs of admitting him,and feeling it awkward to stand beside a grief that was greaterthan his, he crossed his arms behind him, and took a turn alongthe pavement.

　　The embankment juts out in angles here and there, like pulpits;instead of preachers, however, small boys occupy them, dangling string,dropping pebbles, or launching wads of paper for a cruise.

　　With their sharp eye for eccentricity, they were inclined to thinkMr. Ambrose awful; but the quickest witted cried "Bluebeard!"as he passed. In case they should proceed to tease his wife,Mr. Ambrose flourished his stick at them, upon which they decidedthat he was grotesque merely, and four instead of one cried"Bluebeard!" in chorus.

　　Although Mrs. Ambrose stood quite still, much longer than is natural,the little boys let her be. Some one is always looking into the rivernear Waterloo Bridge; a couple will stand there talking for halfan hour on a fine afternoon; most people, walking for pleasure,contemplate for three minutes; when, having compared the occasion withother occasions, or made some sentence, they pass on. Sometimes theflats and churches and hotels of Westminster are like the outlinesof Constantinople in a mist; sometimes the river is an opulent purple,sometimes mud-coloured, sometimes sparkling blue like the sea.

　　It is always worth while to look down and see what is happening.

　　But this lady looked neither up nor down; the only thing she had seen,since she stood there, was a circular iridescent patch slowly floatingpast with a straw in the middle of it. The straw and the patch swamagain and again behind the tremulous medium of a great welling tear,and the tear rose and fell and dropped into the river. Then therestruck close upon her ears--Lars Porsena of ClusiumBy the nine Gods he swore--and then more faintly, as if the speaker had passed her on his walk--That the Great House of TarquinShould suffer wrong no more.

　　Yes, she knew she must go back to all that, but at present she must weep.

　　Screening her face she sobbed more steadily than she had yet done,her shoulders rising and falling with great regularity. It was thisfigure that her husband saw when, having reached the polished Sphinx,having entangled himself with a man selling picture postcards, he turned;the stanza instantly stopped. He came up to her, laid his handon her shoulder, and said, "Dearest." His voice was supplicating.

　　But she shut her face away from him, as much as to say, "You can'tpossibly understand."As he did not leave her, however, she had to wipe her eyes, and toraise them to the level of the factory chimneys on the other bank.

　　She saw also the arches of Waterloo Bridge and the carts movingacross them, like the line of animals in a shooting gallery.

　　They were seen blankly, but to see anything was of course to end herweeping and begin to walk.

　　"I would rather walk," she said, her husband having hailed a cabalready occupied by two city men.

　　The fixity of her mood was broken by the action of walking.

　　The shooting motor cars, more like spiders in the moon thanterrestrial objects, the thundering drays, the jingling hansoms,and little black broughams, made her think of the world she lived in.

　　Somewhere up there above the pinnacles where the smoke rose in apointed hill, her children were now asking for her, and gettinga soothing reply. As for the mass of streets, squares, and publicbuildings which parted them, she only felt at this moment how littleLondon had done to make her love it, although thirty of her fortyyears had been spent in a street. She knew how to read the peoplewho were passing her; there were the rich who were running to and fromeach others' houses at this hour; there were the bigoted workersdriving in a straight line to their offices; there were the poorwho were unhappy and rightly malignant. Already, though therewas sunlight in the haze, tattered old men and women were noddingoff to sleep upon the seats. When one gave up seeing the beautythat clothed things, this was the skeleton beneath.

　　A fine rain now made her still more dismal; vans with the oddnames of those engaged in odd industries--Sprules, Manufacturerof Saw-dust; Grabb, to whom no piece of waste paper comes amiss--fell flat as a bad joke; bold lovers, sheltered behind one cloak,seemed to her sordid, past their passion; the flower women,a contented company, whose talk is always worth hearing, were sodden hags;the red, yellow, and blue flowers, whose heads were pressed together,would not blaze. Moreover, her husband walking with a quickrhythmic stride, jerking his free hand occasionally, was eithera Viking or a stricken Nelson; the sea-gulls had changed his note.

　　"Ridley, shall we drive? Shall we drive, Ridley?"Mrs. Ambrose had to speak sharply; by this time he was far away.

　　The cab, by trotting steadily along the same road, soon withdrewthem from the West End, and plunged them into London. It appearedthat this was a great manufacturing place, where the peoplewere engaged in making things, as though the West End, with itselectric lamps, its vast plate-glass windows all shining yellow,its carefully-finished houses, and tiny live figures trottingon the pavement, or bowled along on wheels in the road, was thefinished work. It appeared to her a very small bit of work for suchan enormous factory to have made. For some reason it appearedto her as a small golden tassel on the edge of a vast black cloak.

　　Observing that they passed no other hansom cab, but only vansand waggons, and that not one of the thousand men and women shesaw was either a gentleman or a lady, Mrs. Ambrose understoodthat after all it is the ordinary thing to be poor, and thatLondon is the city of innumerable poor people. Startled by thisdiscovery and seeing herself pacing a circle all the daysof her life round Picadilly Circus she was greatly relievedto pass a building put up by the London County Council for Night Schools.

　　"Lord, how gloomy it is!" her husband groaned. "Poor creatures!"What with the misery for her children, the poor, and the rain,her mind was like a wound exposed to dry in the air.

　　At this point the cab stopped, for it was in danger of beingcrushed like an egg-shell. The wide Embankment which had had roomfor cannonballs and squadrons, had now shrunk to a cobbled lanesteaming with smells of malt and oil and blocked by waggons.

　　While her husband read the placards pasted on the brick announcingthe hours at which certain ships would sail for Scotland,Mrs. Ambrose did her best to find information. From a worldexclusively occupied in feeding waggons with sacks, half obliteratedtoo in a fine yellow fog, they got neither help nor attention.

　　It seemed a miracle when an old man approached, guessed their condition,and proposed to row them out to their ship in the little boatwhich he kept moored at the bottom of a flight of steps. With somehesitation they trusted themselves to him, took their places,and were soon waving up and down upon the water, London having shrunkto two lines of buildings on either side of them, square buildingsand oblong buildings placed in rows like a child's avenue of bricks.

　　The river, which had a certain amount of troubled yellow light in it,ran with great force; bulky barges floated down swiftly escorted by tugs;police boats shot past everything; the wind went with the current.

　　The open rowing-boat in which they sat bobbed and curtseyed acrossthe line of traffic. In mid-stream the old man stayed his hands uponthe oars, and as the water rushed past them, remarked that once hehad taken many passengers across, where now he took scarcely any.

　　He seemed to recall an age when his boat, moored among rushes,carried delicate feet across to lawns at Rotherhithe.

　　"They want bridges now," he said, indicating the monstrousoutline of the Tower Bridge. Mournfully Helen regarded him,who was putting water between her and her children. Mournfully shegazed at the ship they were approaching; anchored in the middleof the stream they could dimly read her name--_Euphrosyne_.

　　Very dimly in the falling dusk they could see the lines of the rigging,the masts and the dark flag which the breeze blew out squarely behind.

　　As the little boat sidled up to the steamer, and the old man shippedhis oars, he remarked once more pointing above, that ships allthe world over flew that flag the day they sailed. In the mindsof both the passengers the blue flag appeared a sinister token,and this the moment for presentiments, but nevertheless they rose,gathered their things together, and climbed on deck.

　　Down in the saloon of her father's ship, Miss Rachel Vinrace,aged twenty-four, stood waiting her uncle and aunt nervously.

　　To begin with, though nearly related, she scarcely remembered them;to go on with, they were elderly people, and finally, as her father'sdaughter she must be in some sort prepared to entertain them.

　　She looked forward to seeing them as civilised people generallylook forward to the first sight of civilised people, as thoughthey were of the nature of an approaching physical discomfort--a tight shoe or a draughty window. She was already unnaturallybraced to receive them. As she occupied herself in laying forksseverely straight by the side of knives, she heard a man's voicesaying gloomily:

　　"On a dark night one would fall down these stairs head foremost,"to which a woman's voice added, "And be killed."As she spoke the last words the woman stood in the doorway. Tall,large-eyed, draped in purple shawls, Mrs. Ambrose was romantic and beautiful;not perhaps sympathetic, for her eyes looked straight and consideredwhat they saw. Her face was much warmer than a Greek face; on theother hand it was much bolder than the face of the usual pretty Englishwoman.

　　"Oh, Rachel, how d'you do," she said, shaking hands.

　　"How are you, dear," said Mr. Ambrose, inclining his foreheadto be kissed. His niece instinctively liked his thin angular body,and the big head with its sweeping features, and the acute,innocent eyes.

　　"Tell Mr. Pepper," Rachel bade the servant. Husband and wife thensat down on one side of the table, with their niece opposite to them.

　　"My father told me to begin," she explained. "He is very busywith the men. . . . You know Mr. Pepper?"A little man who was bent as some trees are by a gale on one sideof them had slipped in. Nodding to Mr. Ambrose, he shook handswith Helen.

　　"Draughts," he said, erecting the collar of his coat.

　　"You are still rheumatic?" asked Helen. Her voice was lowand seductive, though she spoke absently enough, the sightof town and river being still present to her mind.

　　"Once rheumatic, always rheumatic, I fear," he replied. "To someextent it depends on the weather, though not so much as peopleare apt to think.""One does not die of it, at any rate," said Helen.

　　"As a general rule--no," said Mr. Pepper.

　　"Soup, Uncle Ridley?" asked Rachel.

　　"Thank you, dear," he said, and, as he held his plate out,sighed audibly, "Ah! she's not like her mother." Helen was justtoo late in thumping her tumbler on the table to prevent Rachelfrom hearing, and from blushing scarlet with embarrassment.

　　"The way servants treat flowers!" she said hastily. She drewa green vase with a crinkled lip towards her, and began pulling outthe tight little chrysanthemums, which she laid on the table-cloth,arranging them fastidiously side by side.

　　There was a pause.

　　"You knew Jenkinson, didn't you, Ambrose?" asked Mr. Pepper acrossthe table.

　　"Jenkinson of Peterhouse?""He's dead," said Mr. Pepper.

　　"Ah, dear!--I knew him--ages ago," said Ridley. "He was the heroof the punt accident, you remember? A queer card. Married a youngwoman out of a tobacconist's, and lived in the Fens--never heardwhat became of him.""Drink--drugs," said Mr. Pepper with sinister conciseness.

　　"He left a commentary. Hopeless muddle, I'm told.""The man had really great abilities," said Ridley.

　　"His introduction to Jellaby holds its own still," went on Mr. Pepper,"which is surprising, seeing how text-books change.""There was a theory about the planets, wasn't there?" asked Ridley.

　　"A screw loose somewhere, no doubt of it," said Mr. Pepper,shaking his head.

　　Now a tremor ran through the table, and a light outside swerved.

　　At the same time an electric bell rang sharply again and again.

　　"We're off," said Ridley.

　　A slight but perceptible wave seemed to roll beneath the floor;then it sank; then another came, more perceptible. Lights slid rightacross the uncurtained window. The ship gave a loud melancholy moan.

　　"We're off!" said Mr. Pepper. Other ships, as sad as she,answered her outside on the river. The chuckling and hissing of watercould be plainly heard, and the ship heaved so that the stewardbringing plates had to balance himself as he drew the curtain.

　　There was a pause.

　　"Jenkinson of Cats--d'you still keep up with him?" asked Ambrose.

　　"As much as one ever does," said Mr. Pepper. "We meet annually.

　　This year he has had the misfortune to lose his wife, which madeit painful, of course.""Very painful," Ridley agreed.

　　"There's an unmarried daughter who keeps house for him, I believe,but it's never the same, not at his age."Both gentlemen nodded sagely as they carved their apples.

　　"There was a book, wasn't there?" Ridley enquired.

　　"There _was_ a book, but there never _will_ be a book," said Mr. Pepperwith such fierceness that both ladies looked up at him.

　　"There never will be a book, because some one else has writtenit for him," said Mr. Pepper with considerable acidity.

　　"That's what comes of putting things off, and collecting fossils,and sticking Norman arches on one's pigsties.""I confess I sympathise," said Ridley with a melancholy sigh.

　　"I have a weakness for people who can't begin."". . . The accumulations of a lifetime wasted," continued Mr. pepper.

　　"He had accumulations enough to fill a barn.""It's a vice that some of us escape," said Ridley. "Our friendMiles has another work out to-day."Mr. Pepper gave an acid little laugh. "According to my calculations,"he said, "he has produced two volumes and a half annually,which, allowing for time spent in the cradle and so forth,shows a commendable industry.""Yes, the old Master's saying of him has been pretty well realised,"said Ridley.

　　"A way they had," said Mr. Pepper. "You know the Bruce collection?--not for publication, of course.""I should suppose not," said Ridley significantly. "For a Divinehe was--remarkably free.""The Pump in Neville's Row, for example?" enquired Mr. Pepper.

　　"Precisely," said Ambrose.

　　Each of the ladies, being after the fashion of their sex,highly trained in promoting men's talk without listening to it,could think--about the education of children, about the useof fog sirens in an opera--without betraying herself. Only itstruck Helen that Rachel was perhaps too still for a hostess,and that she might have done something with her hands.

　　"Perhaps--?" she said at length, upon which they rose and left,vaguely to the surprise of the gentlemen, who had either thoughtthem attentive or had forgotten their presence.

　　"Ah, one could tell strange stories of the old days," they heardRidley say, as he sank into his chair again. Glancing back,at the doorway, they saw Mr. Pepper as though he had suddenly loosenedhis clothes, and had become a vivacious and malicious old ape.

　　Winding veils round their heads, the women walked on deck.

　　They were now moving steadily down the river, passing the darkshapes of ships at anchor, and London was a swarm of lights witha pale yellow canopy drooping above it. There were the lightsof the great theatres, the lights of the long streets, lights thatindicated huge squares of domestic comfort, lights that hung highin air. No darkness would ever settle upon those lamps, as nodarkness had settled upon them for hundreds of years. It seemeddreadful that the town should blaze for ever in the same spot;dreadful at least to people going away to adventure upon the sea,and beholding it as a circumscribed mound, eternally burnt,eternally scarred. From the deck of the ship the great cityappeared a crouched and cowardly figure, a sedentary miser.

　　Leaning over the rail, side by side, Helen said, "Won't you be cold?"Rachel replied, "No. . . . How beautiful!" she added a moment later.

　　Very little was visible--a few masts, a shadow of land here,a line of brilliant windows there. They tried to make head againstthe wind.

　　"It blows--it blows!" gasped Rachel, the words rammed down her throat.

　　Struggling by her side, Helen was suddenly overcome by the spiritof movement, and pushed along with her skirts wrapping themselves roundher knees, and both arms to her hair. But slowly the intoxicationof movement died down, and the wind became rough and chilly.

　　They looked through a chink in the blind and saw that long cigarswere being smoked in the dining-room; they saw Mr. Ambrose throwhimself violently against the back of his chair, while Mr. Peppercrinkled his cheeks as though they had been cut in wood.

　　The ghost of a roar of laughter came out to them, and was drownedat once in the wind. In the dry yellow-lighted room Mr. Pepperand Mr. Ambrose were oblivious of all tumult; they were in Cambridge,and it was probably about the year 1875.

　　"They're old friends," said Helen, smiling at the sight.

　　"Now, is there a room for us to sit in?"Rachel opened a door.

　　"It's more like a landing than a room," she said. Indeed ithad nothing of the shut stationary character of a room on shore.

　　A table was rooted in the middle, and seats were stuck to the sides.

　　Happily the tropical suns had bleached the tapestries to a fadedblue-green colour, and the mirror with its frame of shells, the workof the steward's love, when the time hung heavy in the southern seas,was quaint rather than ugly. Twisted shells with red lips likeunicorn's horns ornamented the mantelpiece, which was draped by a pallof purple plush from which depended a certain number of balls.

　　Two windows opened on to the deck, and the light beating through themwhen the ship was roasted on the Amazons had turned the prints onthe opposite wall to a faint yellow colour, so that "The Coliseum"was scarcely to be distinguished from Queen Alexandra playingwith her Spaniels. A pair of wicker arm-chairs by the firesideinvited one to warm one's hands at a grate full of gilt shavings;a great lamp swung above the table--the kind of lamp which makesthe light of civilisation across dark fields to one walking inthe country.

　　"It's odd that every one should be an old friend of Mr. Pepper's,"Rachel started nervously, for the situation was difficult,the room cold, and Helen curiously silent.

　　"I suppose you take him for granted?" said her aunt.

　　"He's like this," said Rachel, lighting on a fossilised fishin a basin, and displaying it.

　　"I expect you're too severe," Helen remarked.

　　Rachel immediately tried to qualify what she had said againsther belief.

　　"I don't really know him," she said, and took refuge in facts,believing that elderly people really like them better than feelings.

　　She produced what she knew of William Pepper. She told Helenthat he always called on Sundays when they were at home; he knewabout a great many things--about mathematics, history, Greek,zoology, economics, and the Icelandic Sagas. He had turned Persianpoetry into English prose, and English prose into Greek iambics;he was an authority upon coins; and--one other thing--oh yes,she thought it was vehicular traffic.

　　He was here either to get things out of the sea, or to write uponthe probable course of Odysseus, for Greek after all was his hobby.

　　"I've got all his pamphlets," she said. "Little pamphlets.

　　Little yellow books." It did not appear that she had read them.

　　"Has he ever been in love?" asked Helen, who had chosen a seat.

　　This was unexpectedly to the point.

　　"His heart's a piece of old shoe leather," Rachel declared,dropping the fish. But when questioned she had to own that shehad never asked him.

　　"I shall ask him," said Helen.

　　"The last time I saw you, you were buying a piano," she continued.

　　"Do you remember--the piano, the room in the attic, and the greatplants with the prickles?""Yes, and my aunts said the piano would come through the floor,but at their age one wouldn't mind being killed in the night?"she enquired.

　　"I heard from Aunt Bessie not long ago," Helen stated. "She is afraidthat you will spoil your arms if you insist upon so much practising.""The muscles of the forearm--and then one won't marry?""She didn't put it quite like that," replied Mrs. Ambrose.

　　"Oh, no--of course she wouldn't," said Rachel with a sigh.

　　Helen looked at her. Her face was weak rather than decided,saved from insipidity by the large enquiring eyes; denied beauty,now that she was sheltered indoors, by the lack of colour anddefinite outline. Moreover, a hesitation in speaking, or rathera tendency to use the wrong words, made her seem more than normallyincompetent for her years. Mrs. Ambrose, who had been speaking muchat random, now reflected that she certainly did not look forward tothe intimacy of three or four weeks on board ship which was threatened.

　　Women of her own age usually boring her, she supposed that girlswould be worse. She glanced at Rachel again. Yes! how clear itwas that she would be vacillating, emotional, and when you saidsomething to her it would make no more lasting impression thanthe stroke of a stick upon water. There was nothing to take holdof in girls--nothing hard, permanent, satisfactory. Did Willoughbysay three weeks, or did he say four? She tried to remember.

　　At this point, however, the door opened and a tall burly manentered the room, came forward and shook Helen's hand with anemotional kind of heartiness, Willoughby himself, Rachel's father,Helen's brother-in-law. As a great deal of flesh would have beenneeded to make a fat man of him, his frame being so large,he was not fat; his face was a large framework too, looking, by thesmallness of the features and the glow in the hollow of the cheek,more fitted to withstand assaults of the weather than to expresssentiments and emotions, or to respond to them in others.

　　"It is a great pleasure that you have come," he said, "for bothof us."Rachel murmured in obedience to her father's glance.

　　"We'll do our best to make you comfortable. And Ridley. We thinkit an honour to have charge of him. Pepper'll have some one tocontradict him--which I daren't do. You find this child grown,don't you? A young woman, eh?"Still holding Helen's hand he drew his arm round Rachel's shoulder,thus making them come uncomfortably close, but Helen forboreto look.

　　"You think she does us credit?" he asked.

　　"Oh yes," said Helen.

　　"Because we expect great things of her," he continued, squeezing hisdaughter's arm and releasing her. "But about you now." They sat downside by side on the little sofa. "Did you leave the children well?

　　They'll be ready for school, I suppose. Do they take after youor Ambrose? They've got good heads on their shoulders, I'll be bound?"At this Helen immediately brightened more than she had yet done,and explained that her son was six and her daughter ten.

　　Everybody said that her boy was like her and her girl like Ridley.

　　As for brains, they were quick brats, she thought, and modestly sheventured on a little story about her son,--how left alone for a minutehe had taken the pat of butter in his fingers, run across the roomwith it, and put it on the fire--merely for the fun of the thing,a feeling which she could understand.

　　"And you had to show the young rascal that these tricks wouldn't do, eh?""A child of six? I don't think they matter.""I'm an old-fashioned father.""Nonsense, Willoughby; Rachel knows better."Much as Willoughby would doubtless have liked his daughterto praise him she did not; her eyes were unreflecting as water,her fingers still toying with the fossilised fish, her mind absent.

　　The elder people went on to speak of arrangements that could bemade for Ridley's comfort--a table placed where he couldn't helplooking at the sea, far from boilers, at the same time shelteredfrom the view of people passing. Unless he made this a holiday,when his books were all packed, he would have no holiday whatever;for out at Santa Marina Helen knew, by experience, that he would workall day; his boxes, she said, were packed with books.

　　"Leave it to me--leave it to me!" said Willoughby, obviously intendingto do much more than she asked of him. But Ridley and Mr. Pepperwere heard fumbling at the door.

　　"How are you, Vinrace?" said Ridley, extending a limp handas he came in, as though the meeting were melancholy to both,but on the whole more so to him.

　　Willoughby preserved his heartiness, tempered by respect.

　　For the moment nothing was said.

　　"We looked in and saw you laughing," Helen remarked. "Mr. Pepperhad just told a very good story.""Pish. None of the stories were good," said her husband peevishly.

　　"Still a severe judge, Ridley?" enquired Mr. Vinrace.

　　"We bored you so that you left," said Ridley, speaking directlyto his wife.

　　As this was quite true Helen did not attempt to deny it,and her next remark, "But didn't they improve after we'd gone?"was unfortunate, for her husband answered with a droop of his shoulders,"If possible they got worse."The situation was now one of considerable discomfort for everyone concerned, as was proved by a long interval of constraintand silence. Mr. Pepper, indeed, created a diversion of a kindby leaping on to his seat, both feet tucked under him, with theaction of a spinster who detects a mouse, as the draught struckat his ankles. Drawn up there, sucking at his cigar, with hisarms encircling his knees, he looked like the image of Buddha,and from this elevation began a discourse, addressed to nobody,for nobody had called for it, upon the unplumbed depths of ocean.

　　He professed himself surprised to learn that although Mr. Vinracepossessed ten ships, regularly plying between London and Buenos Aires,not one of them was bidden to investigate the great white monstersof the lower waters.

　　"No, no," laughed Willoughby, "the monsters of the earth are toomany for me!"Rachel was heard to sigh, "Poor little goats!""If it weren't for the goats there'd be no music, my dear;music depends upon goats," said her father rather sharply,and Mr. Pepper went on to describe the white, hairless, blind monsterslying curled on the ridges of sand at the bottom of the sea,which would explode if you brought them to the surface,their sides bursting asunder and scattering entrails to the windswhen released from pressure, with considerable detail and withsuch show of knowledge, that Ridley was disgusted, and begged him to stop.

　　From all this Helen drew her own conclusions, which were gloomy enough.

　　Pepper was a bore; Rachel was an unlicked girl, no doubt prolificof confidences, the very first of which would be: "You see,I don't get on with my father." Willoughby, as usual, loved hisbusiness and built his Empire, and between them all she would beconsiderably bored. Being a woman of action, however, she rose,and said that for her part she was going to bed. At the doorshe glanced back instinctively at Rachel, expecting that as twoof the same sex they would leave the room together. Rachel rose,looked vaguely into Helen's face, and remarked with her slight stammer,"I'm going out to t-t-triumph in the wind."Mrs. Ambrose's worst suspicions were confirmed; she went downthe passage lurching from side to side, and fending off the wallnow with her right arm, now with her left; at each lurch sheexclaimed emphatically, "Damn!"