"I read _Punch_ on the top of the baby."

At this most unexpected revelation Mr. Wycherly fairly jumped.

"You mean you sat on the baby?" he cried, aghast.

"No, it was _Punch_ sat on the baby and it didn't like it. It yelled."

"Do explain--your statements are so confused--what _do_ you mean?"

"I mean," she continued, "I opened _Punch_ on the baby and read it--it

was only a minute, but I was so interested, and I've heard them say that

it doesn't hurt to let a healthy baby cry for a minute--and all the

nurses read, I've seen them hundreds of times; but they heard and came

flying all in a hurry and were so cross, and Mrs. Cox said I needn't

ever come back."

It was well that Jane-Anne couldn't see Mr. Wycherly's face, which was

lighted up by a smile of immense satisfaction; but what he _said_

sounded very grave.

"I fear you have not been very honest, little Jane-Anne."

She sat up and looked at him.

"Honest! I've told you exactly what happened."

"Certainly, you've been honest to me, but what about Mrs. Cox?"

Jane-Anne hung her head.

"The baby slept at first," she said, "and it was so dull and all the

_Punches_ were there--and I got so interested----"

"You've not done what you undertook to do, that was to look after the

baby. Mrs. Cox didn't ask you there to read her _Punches_ did she?"

"She'll never have me again, she said so."

"I'm not surprised."

"What will Mrs. Methuen say?"

"I can't think."

"And aunt?"

"I don't think your--aunt" (Mr. Wycherly was just going to say

"excellent," but restrained himself) "will be much surprised."

Jane-Anne sighed deeply. "I shall never be a Norland Nurse now," she

said sadly. "I've lost my character."

"I'm afraid you have."

"Do _you_ mind very much?"

"Upon my soul," said Mr. Wycherly, "I don't care a brass farthing."

*CHAPTER XV*

*THE PHILOSOPHY OF BEAUTY*

"The foundation of beauty is a reasonable order addressed to the

imagination through the senses." PHILEBUS.

The last time Mrs. Methuen called in Holywell, just before she went

away, she left a ladies' paper, _The Peeress_.

Jane-Anne fell upon it instantly and carried it off to her room. She

had never seen such a paper before and her mind was in a curiously

receptive state. Lord Byron's Hebrew melodies rang in her ears, and she

immensely enjoyed herself when she went to bed at night by standing in

front of the looking-glass in her night gown, with her thick black hair

streaming round her like a cloud, while she repeated solemnly:--

"She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes.

Thus mellowed to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies."

She quite agreed with the poet that "gaudy day" was a little unkind to

her appearance. She was too brown; moreover, she was no longer pale, and

this rather vexed her. She had an idea that Lord Byron would have

preferred her pale. Still she felt that her hair was quite satisfactory

and shook it round her, only grieving that the glass was far too small

to show it all. There was not a cheval-glass in Mr. Wycherly's house.

But from time to time she caught sight of her big plait (Mrs. Methuen

had persuaded Mrs. Dew to have Jane-Anne's hair done in one thick plait

instead of two) in shop windows, with the profoundest satisfaction.

"One shade the more, one ray the less."

She hoped she had rays in her hair, but was not quite sure.

"Had half impaired the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place."

To obtain the "thoughts serenely sweet" it was but necessary to adopt

the Bruey pose, and, behold, the thing was done.

Mere words cannot express the comfort that poem was to Jane-Anne. Up

and down her room she sailed, "clothed on in majesty," an unbleached

calico night gown, and her long black hair.

"The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent."

At such moments she adored Lord Byron for writing such beautiful things

about her, and was perfectly happy.

Mrs. Methuen's magazine opened up new possibilities. From its pages she

learned that no one need despair of their personal appearance. Had

nature been niggardly in the matter of hair, a hundred artists in

coiffure advertised their aid. Was one's complexion not quite to one's

liking, there were skin specialists galore who undertook to remedy any

facial defects. In fact the journal was a regular _vade mecum_ as to

the cult of beauty, and such pleasing visions were not conjured up by

words alone. There were pictures in plenty of lovely ladies in every

stage of lack of attire and with every variety of "transformation."

Radiant beings with enormous eyes, preternaturally minute mouths, and

figures so slender that one wondered if they ever had anything to eat.

And every one of them had wavy hair.

Now Jane-Anne's hair waved just after it was unplaited, but it was

naturally quite straight, soft, fine, abundant hair, growing very

prettily round her face with an upward sweep from her forehead.

It was all very well to walk in beauty like the night. It was

comparatively easy to imagine one realised Lord Byron's conception of

the Hebrew beauty. But here much more was expected.

Jane-Anne was certainly slim, the unkindly accurate might have described

her as decidedly thin; but, even so, she was not shaped at all like the

ladies depicted in _The Peeress_. Her legs were long and her hips were

small, but--"I seem too thick through," she said to herself.

There was a whole page of replies to anxious students of the Art of

Beauty. "Pietista" sought to improve a throat "discoloured and too

thin." "Butterfly" complained of "sagging lines beneath chin and around

mouth."

Jane-Anne flew to the glass but could discover nothing of the kind, and

was comforted.

"Troubled" wanted to know how to "colour dark hair a bright auburn," but

Jane-Anne passed this by. She was perfectly satisfied with the colour

of her hair. What she did long for was a box of "Magnolia Bloom

powder," which _The Peeress_ assured "Amabelle" would lend to the

countenance "the soft sheen of a butterfly's wing."

But this desirable appearance could only be arrived at by the

expenditure of eighteen-pence, and Jane-Anne possessed but

three-halfpence in the world. The other beautifiers cost such vast sums

as excluded them altogether from her scheme of possibilities.

Eighteenpence: one shilling and sixpence. Once Lord Dursley had given

her a new two-shilling bit and her aunt allowed her to keep it. But,

alas! it was spent long ago, and Lord Dursley was not very likely to

come to Oxford that summer.

She would consult Mr. Wycherly. She had infinite faith in his sympathy,

his wisdom, and his resource. She would show him this enchanting

journal and see what he thought of it. Perhaps he, who read so many

books, was already familiar with its pages.

She carried it with her when she went to bid him good-night. It had

become an established custom for Jane-Anne to bid him good-night at

considerable length.

"Have you ever read _The Peeress_, sir?" she asked, laying it on his

table on the top of an open book.

"Never," said Mr. Wycherly. "Is this the lady?" He opened it, turned

the pages somewhat hastily, and actually blushed.

"My dear child!" he exclaimed, "where did you get hold of this extremely

shameless production?"

"Mrs. Methuen always takes it, sir; it's a ladies' paper. She left this

number here."

"Mrs. Methuen, that refined and charming young lady! Surely, my dear,

you are mistaken."

"No, sir, really. Lots of ladies always read it, aunt said so. I

wanted to take it back to her lest she should want it, but aunt says she

gets it every week, and she didn't think it mattered."

"That being the case," Mr. Wycherly remarked, hastily shutting the

magazine, "it is evidently not intended for me, and you had better take

it away."

"Oh, sir," Jane-Anne pleaded, "do look at the pictures. They're such

beautiful ladies."

But Mr. Wycherly steadfastly averted his gaze from the offending

magazine, exclaiming:

"Beautiful! My dear child, how can you apply that dignified and really

expressive adjective to anything so dreadful? Have you ever seen any

human being who in the least resembled the extremely indelicate

creatures depicted in this paper?"

"No, sir, but I'd like to. They've all got such curly hair."

"Most of them," Mr. Wycherly said severely, "appear to wear very little

else. We must show you some really beautiful pictures, Jane-Anne, and

then perhaps you will realise the worthlessness of these."

She felt that it was an unpropitious moment for the introduction of

"Magnolia Bloom toilet powder." Mr. Wycherly's attitude was strangely

unsympathetic. Nevertheless she was full of tenacity of purpose, so she

said, in what she was assured Bruey would have considered a "winning"

voice:

"Please, sir, is there anything I could do to earn one-and-six?"

Mr. Wycherly laughed. "I think you have earned it many times over by

all the things you do for me. Would you like it now?"

He took a handful of silver from his pocket and pushed the coins toward

her, saying:

"I wish they were new ones. I always think all the new silver ought to

be kept for boys and girls--but if you're in a hurry--perhaps you'd

rather have it now."

"Thank you very much, sir," said Jane-Anne; but her voice was not

joyful, as one might have expected.

She felt rather uncomfortable.

He had never questioned her as to why she wanted it.

"Are you sure it's enough?" he asked kindly.

"Quite sure, sir, and I'm very much obliged."

Mr. Wycherly looked at her curiously. Why was her voice so listless and

flat?

She dropped the coins into the pocket of her dress and stood before him,

rubbing one slender foot over the other, her eyes downcast, quite unlike

the eager, chattering child he loved.

"Good-night, sir," said Jane-Anne.

When she reached her bedroom she felt very miserable indeed. She

possessed the coveted eighteenpence and was thoroughly ashamed of having

it. It had been obtained too easily and she felt that she was deceiving

Mr. Wycherly. Without knowing why, she was certain he would not wholly

approve of the purchase of the "Magnolia Bloom powder," and he had never

asked her why she wanted the eighteen-pence. He trusted her.

Jane-Anne felt mean.

Against her will, the verses she loved returned to her mind:

"The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent."

Hitherto she had happily considered those lines quite applicable to her

general conduct. Even the disastrous morning at Mrs. Cox's had not left

behind it the uncomfortable sensations she was now enduring.

She had not been six years in Mrs. Dew's charge without acquiring

something of that good woman's sturdy independence.

She had asked for money.

She had taken it; and for a purpose she was certain the donor would

disapprove.

He would call it "meretricious," that curious word Master Montagu had

used. She had heard Mr. Wycherly use it too.

"A mind at peace with all below,

A heart where love is innocent!"

Should she go back and tell Mr. Wycherly why she wanted the money and

let him decide? Then once more might she "walk in beauty like the

night" with her hair all round her and a light heart.

But he would be certain to advise her not to buy the "Magnolia Bloom."

He wouldn't forbid it. That was not his way. But he would make it

impossible for her to go and buy it--and she wanted it so dreadfully.

Perhaps when he saw how lovely she looked with a face that was no longer

brown but purest white "with the soft sheen of a butterfly's wing" he

would be glad she was so much improved.

Jane-Anne knelt down and said her prayers and added at the end the

following petition:

"And please, dear Lord, let him admire me very much when I'm all over

'Magnolia Bloom.'"

Mrs. Dew came to take away the candle, but the room was quite light, for

a big yellow moon was shining straight in.

Now was the moment when Jane-Anne usually arose and walked in beauty,

repeating the poem the while.

Instead, she lay quite still. She felt she had no right to that poem;

Lord Byron had not written it for her.

Why did she feel so certain that he, too, would have disapproved of the

"Magnolia Bloom"?

Jane-Anne cried herself to sleep.

* * * * *

Next day she went to the largest hairdresser's in Oxford, and presented

herself timidly at a counter laden with all sorts of pots and boxes and

bottles.

She asked for the "Magnolia Bloom" in a weak and trembling voice, and

was relieved to find they had it.

"Which shade will you have?" asked the young lady behind the counter.

"Oh, the very whitest, please!" exclaimed Jane-Anne.

"D'you want a puff, miss?" asked the attendant.

Jane-Anne had never thought of a puff. She shook her head sadly.

Judging by the price of the other things, no puff could be obtained for

three-halfpence, which was all the money she had.

She hurried from the shop.

How expensive it was to be beautiful!

She knew what a puff was, for she had been permitted to assist at and to

admire the bathing of Mrs. Methuen's baby, and she had seen the nurse

powder him. She was nothing if not resourceful. She went to the

nearest jeweller and bought a pennyworth of cotton wool, and armed with

what _The Peeress_ called these "aids to beauty," she returned to

Holywell in a flutter of excitement.

Anxious as she was to try the beautifying effect of the "Magnolia

Bloom," she felt some diffidence in presenting herself before her aunt

thus embellished, so she waited until she had taken in Mr. Wycherly's

tea and had her own.

It was Mr. Wycherly's pleasant custom to keep her for half an hour or so

when she went in to take away his tea. They talked about Greece, and

she had learned to read some of the simple words. She learned the

alphabet in two evenings, and astonished Mr. Wycherly by her quickness

and receptivity.

She stood in front of her looking-glass that evening and, with hands

that trembled with excitement, applied the "Magnolia Bloom" to her

little brown face.

It never occurred to Jane-Anne that the way to use powder was to put it

on and take it off again. That would have appeared to her a wasteful

work of supererogation. She liberally bedaubed her face with the

"snow-white" powder and anxiously regarded the result.

Her eyes looked very dark and large, and her eyebrows, what she had left

of them, very black. It had rather an ageing effect on the whole, for

so liberal had she been with the powder that her hair all round the

temples was iron grey.

She was not quite sure whether she liked the effect or not. Even to her

own prejudiced eyes it was a trifle _bizarre_ and pronounced.

Where was the soft sheen of the butterfly's wing promised to "Amabelle"?

"Perhaps it looks different to other people," she reflected.

She crept to the foot of the stairs and listened.

Yes, her aunt was safely in the kitchen. She darted through the

housekeeper's room and upstairs to Mr. Wycherly's door, and went in.

He looked up from the letter he was writing with his usual kindly smile

of welcome, then suddenly he laughed.

"My dear Jane-Anne," he exclaimed, "have you been baking?"

Jane-Anne stood still in the middle of the room and hung her head.

"It's Magnolia Bloom," she mumbled.

"It's what?" Mr. Wycherly demanded.

"Magnolia Bloom," she repeated, her cheeks very hot indeed beneath the

powder.

"Is that some new kind of flour?" asked Mr. Wycherly, "and if so why in

the world do you not wash your face?"

"It's not flour, sir, it's powder--face powder--to make one white and

pretty? Don't you like it?"

Mr. Wycherly sat back in his chair gazing in speechless wonder at

Jane-Anne. That a girl who admired Lord Byron's poetry, who could learn

the Greek alphabet in two evenings, who showed a real appreciation of

what was noble and uplifting in the history of her country, could make

such an absolute guy of herself in all good faith was to him quite

incomprehensible. Boys did not do these things. He was fairly

nonplussed.

"Where did you get this--ahem--bloom?" he asked quietly.

"I bought it, sir, with that eighteenpence."

"Have you much more of it?"

"Oh, yes, sir, a whole box."

"Please bring it, and you shall similarly adorn me and see how I look."

Jane-Anne was puzzled. He certainly had not admired her, but then,

again, he had not condemned, and he wanted some himself. Swiftly and

softly as a panther (lest she should meet her aunt) she fetched the

powder and the screw of cotton wool from her room.

"Now," said Mr. Wycherly, "do me."

Jane-Anne made a dreadful mess. All over his coat, his chair (even the

writing-table did not escape), fell the "Magnolia Bloom."

"What a very disagreeable smell the stuff has got," said Mr. Wycherly,

and sneezed. He hated common scents.

At this psychological moment, when they were both smothered in powder

and clouds of it were in the air, Mrs. Dew opened the study door,

announcing:

"Mr. Gloag, sir."

Jane-Anne started violently and upset the box, and the visitor announced

came into the room.

He was tall and young, with a keen, clean-shaven face, merry dark eyes,

and dark curly hair worn a thought longer than is usual with young men.

He stopped short on the threshold, for really the pair before him

presented a most extraordinary appearance.

Mr. Wycherly leapt to his feet, exclaiming:

"Curly, my dear fellow, I am delighted to see you." He had quite

forgotten the "Magnolia Bloom" in his pleasure at beholding an old

friend.

"Am I interrupting a rehearsal, or what?" the young man asked, as he

shook hands warmly.

Mr. Wycherly sneezed again. "Oh, this abominable powder; I had

forgotten it for the moment. Now, Curly, you are an actor; you are

familiar with make-up in every shape and form. Will you kindly tell

this young lady whether you consider us improved by this whitewash?"

The situation jumped to the eye. The young man laughed.

"You are both of you rather new to the use of powder, I should say; no

one ever leaves it on, you know."

"Then what on earth is the use of it?" demanded Mr. Wycherly.

"It has, perhaps, a softening effect, but it is never used in such

quantities."

"Go and wash, Jane-Anne," said Mr. Wycherly, "and I must do the same,

then ask Mrs. Dew--no, come yourself with a dustpan and brush and clear

up as well as you can. Curly will go downstairs."

In absolute silence Jane-Anne did as she was bid. It took a long time

to clean Mr. Wycherly's study. There seemed a great deal of "Magnolia

Bloom" for eighteenpence when she had finished. She emptied the dustpan

into the dustbin, then she went and fetched _The Peeress_. Mrs. Dew had

gone out to get something extra for dinner, as the gentleman was going

to stay, so Jane-Anne had the kitchen to herself. She tore _The

Peeress_ across and across and thrust it down into the hottest part of

the fire, putting more coal on the top of it lest her aunt should see it

and wonder.

"There," said Jane-Anne, poking viciously. "You're a horrid,

meretricious, lying old thing, that you are."

*CHAPTER XVI*

*THE PURSUIT CONTINUED*

"For beauty draws us by a single hair." POPE.

Jane-Anne waited at dinner that night, and the stranger with the dark,

vivacious eyes looked at her curiously more than once. When she had set

the port in front of Mr. Wycherly and left the room finally, this guest,

whom he called "Curly," leant forward, saying:

"So that is the new ward?"

"If you like to call her so."

"She is not an ordinary girl."

"I fear not."

"Why fear?"

"Because she will be very hard to place safely."

"My own impression is," Curly said slowly, "that she will need no

placing at all, she will arrange matters for herself."

"You mean she will marry while quite young."

"Not at all. I should say she is quite unlikely to marry very young,

but she will find a niche for herself, and she won't follow any beaten

track either."

"When she came first of all," said Mr. Wycherly, "it was understood that

she was to be trained for a servant; the doctor vetoed that--said she

would never be strong enough. Then a charming lady here suggested having

her trained as some very superior sort of nurse--children's nurse, but I

question whether her genius lies in that direction. Personally, I can

think of nothing very suitable for Jane-Anne except to delight me and

get strong; but of course one must be practical. She is extraordinarily

receptive. She takes pleasure in every kind of beauty, and she is quite

singularly susceptible to beautiful verse. You should hear her recite

Byron's 'Isles of Greece.'"

"Why shouldn't I hear her? Get her in and ask her to do it, then,

perhaps, I can throw some light on this dark question."

"I can't say that I think she would be shy," Mr. Wycherly said

dubiously, "for shyness and Jane-Anne seem quite foreign to one another;

but--whether it would be good for her----"

"I'd like to hear her awfully," said Curly persuasively. "A

housekeeper's niece, not thirteen, and steeped in Byron sounds such a

delightful anachronism. Moreover, a little girl brought up by you.

Please let me."

There was something very wheedling about Curly as he rose and went to

the bell.

Mr. Wycherly nodded, and he rang.

Mrs. Dew thought it was for coffee, and that they were in a great hurry.

However, she made it quickly and sent Jane-Anne in with it.

"This gentleman," said Mr. Wycherly, as she set down the coffee in front

of him, "is fond of poetry, and I wonder if you would repeat to him your

favourite verses about Marathon?"

Jane-Anne looked quickly from one to the other. She stepped back a

little from the table and held up one slender brown hand as if adjuring

them to listen.

Curly leant his elbow on the table and his head on his hand, and sat

still as a statue, his brilliant eyes fixed on Jane-Anne.

She had a musical voice and a singularly clear enunciation. She no

longer mispronounced any words, for Mr. Wycherly had heard her say the

poem many times and took care of that. There was, withal, a curious

little foreign distinctness in the way she separated one word from

another that was undoubtedly a reminiscence of her father. She was

never monotonous and she never ranted; best of all, she was utterly

unconscious of herself and absolutely wholehearted in her lament for her

country, and there was real passion in her young voice as she declaimed:

"A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine--

Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!"

No one spoke for a minute, then very gravely and courteously Curly said,

"Thank you."

Jane-Anne turned to go, and Mr. Wycherly rose and opened the door for

her. She looked up at him as she went out, with timid questioning eyes.

"It was beautiful, my child, quite beautiful," he said.

Jane-Anne went back to the kitchen to wash dishes, perfectly happy.

Curly waited till Mr. Wycherly sat down again.

"And so you wonder what that child will be?" he asked.

"I do, indeed," sighed Mr. Wycherly.

"And she, with those great eyes set so wide apart?"

"That," said Mr. Wycherly, "is the Greek type."

"Every great actress," Curly said sententiously, "has her eyes set wide

apart. There has never been a ferrety-faced actress worth anything."

"But what has that got to do with Jane-Anne," Mr. Wycherly said in a

puzzled voice.

Curly laughed. "I shan't tell you," he said. "Only I know what she will

be, and you needn't worry or try to stop it, for you can't."

"I hope she will be nothing of the kind," Mr. Wycherly said hotly.

"Poor little nymph, so sensitive, so loving-hearted, so wise, and at

times, so amazingly silly."

"They are like that," said Curly.

* * * * *

Next morning, Mr. Wycherly told Jane-Anne that the friend who had dined

with him the night before was an actor, and that the company he was in

was performing "As you Like It" that afternoon in a ducal garden not

very far from Oxford; and finally that he was going to take her to see

it.

That day was one long _festa_ for Jane-Anne. First of all came the

drive, sitting side by side with Mr. Wycherly in a hired victoria. She

wore her best summer frock and hat, beautiful white garments chosen by

Mrs. Methuen, that filled her soul with rapture every time she put them

on; white cotton gloves that Mrs. Dew had washed that morning, thin

black stockings, and the light shoes Mr. Wycherly had insisted upon

after he had seen her dance under the apple-tree.

Mrs. Dew watched them drive away with great pride.

"I will say this," she said to her friend, Miss Morecraft, that

afternoon, "that when Jane-Anne's dressed you couldn't tell her from one

of the gentry. She's got something about her, my sister had it, and her

father--not as I ever cared for him--had it, too. I think if my sister

could have seen her this afternoon she'd be set up, that I do. He's a

fine-looking old gentleman, too; handsome he is, and no mistake."

A good many people regarded the quaint pair with pleasure. They were so

manifestly proud and fond of each other, and the child was so radiantly

happy. The crowds of well-dressed people delighted her. The garden was

beautiful, the weather perfect, and with thrills of the wildest

excitement she recognised Curly as Orlando.

When it was over, her first criticism was characteristic. "I'd have

made a better boy than that if I'd been Rosalind; she wasn't a bit like

a boy really, was she? If ever I pretended to be a boy I'd try to

behave like Master Edmund, then I don't believe anyone would rekkernise

me."

"I don't think Shakespeare meant Rosalind to be a finished actress. She

is a supremely lovable girl. I don't think we would care so much for

her if we didn't realise the girl all the way through," Mr. Wycherly

said thoughtfully.

"Perhaps that pretty lady was right then," said Jane-Anne; "but somehow

I _think_ Rosalind would have tried to behave more like a boy."

"When you play Rosalind you shall give us a new reading of the part,"

Mr. Wycherly remarked carelessly.

Jane-Anne cuddled closely against him. "When I'm grown up," she said, "I

shall ask that Mr. Curly to take me about acting, too. How did he

begin?"

"That," Mr. Wycherly answered dreamily, "is a long story, and rather

sad. No one wanted him to be anything of the kind----"

"But he _had_ to!" exclaimed Jane-Anne. "He just had to, something drove

him----"

"I suppose so; even yet I think it a pity."

"I don't," Jane-Anne said decidedly. "I'd rather go about being people

than anything--one could never be dull."

"I'm not so sure of that," said Mr. Wycherly.

For several nights now, both Bruey and "She walks in beauty like the

night" were forgotten. Jane-Anne arose, after her aunt had taken away

the candle, to impersonate Rosalind. She rolled her thick plait round

her head and pinned it up with hairpins stolen from her aunt's store.

She achieved doublet and hose by means of two towels, several safety

pins, and her long stockings. And the moon looked in at the window and

was doubtless well amused.

The moon waxed and waned and the end of July was at hand.

Mr. Wycherly was plainly stirred out of his usual scholarly calm. His

boys were coming home. Jane-Anne shared his excitement, and even Mrs.

Dew felt it necessary to make a large cake and "to get in" quantities of

stores of every description.

Jane-Anne was strung up to the highest pitch of expectation. Although

she had seen comparatively little of the "young gentlemen" when she

first came to Holywell, she had heard about them so much and so

constantly from the master, that she felt she, too, owned them. There

was, moreover, the delightful sense of an "understanding" with Montagu.

He had asked her to look after his guardian and she had done her best.

Moreover, quick and sympathetic always, she early realised that not even

the Greek Myths were so entrancing a subject to Mr. Wycherly as these

two boys of his, and during their walks together she invariably led the

conversation in their direction, and found it an easy and fascinating

path.

At last the great day came. The boys were to meet in London and come

down together to Oxford by a train getting in just before tea.

At the last moment Mr. Wycherly bade Jane-Anne come with him to the

station.

She was pale with excitement and could hardly speak.

When at last the train came in and the boys, brown and jolly and full of

rejoicing at getting home, jumped on to the platform, and the first

exciting greetings had passed, Jane-Anne suddenly flung her arms round

Edmund's neck and burst into tears upon his shoulder.

Edmund looked across the weeping damsel at his guardian in comical

dismay. "I say," he exclaimed. "If she does this when she meets me,

whatever will she do when we go away?"

"I beg your pardon, Master Edmund," sobbed Jane-Anne, hastily

withdrawing her arms, "but we have wanted it so, and now it's come."

"Well, that's nothing to cry for," Montagu said, patting her back

consolingly. "Cheer up."

Jane-Anne dried her eyes, and the four went home in a cab laden with

luggage.

The next few days drove Mrs. Dew almost to desperation. It was

impossible to make Jane-Anne "keep herself to herself," as that good

woman considered decorous and desirable.

Wherever the young gentlemen were, there was Jane-Anne, and it wasn't

altogether her own fault. They sought her out. She fielded at

impromptu cricket matches, and discussed high subjects with Montagu.

She proudly displayed her knowledge of the Greek alphabet, and assisted

to stick in stamps in a long-neglected album. She even confided to the

boys her misfortune with the "Magnolia Bloom," nor was she wholly

crushed by their scorn for her silliness. _Apropos_ of this, one day,

she said:

"I wouldn't mind so much being brown if only I had curly hair."

"The Greeks always had curly hair," Montagu announced authoritatively.

"I can't think why you've been left out, 'ribbed and rippled like the

wet sea-sand,'" he quoted.

"I wonder," Edmund remarked, with a gravity that would have warned a

wiser person, "that you never wash it in beer, then it would curl like

anything."

"_Would_ it?" exclaimed Jane-Anne, in great excitement. "Is that why

yours is so curly?"

Edmund winked at Montagu, who grinned appreciatively. "Of course it

is," he cried; "all our chaps wash their heads in beer every Saturday,

that's why we've all got such ripping hair. Look at it." And Edmund

thrust his head under Jane-Anne's nose.

She ran her hand gently over the short, fair hair that was indeed

"ribbed and rippled like the wet sea-sand," then she sniffed delicately,

remarking: "I wonder it doesn't smell of it."

"Oh, the smell soon goes off," Edmund answered airily.

"Why don't you do it?" she asked Montagu. "Your hair's as straight as

mine."

"He's too slack," Edmund remarked.

"Oh, I can't be bothered," Montagu said carelessly; "I don't want curly

hair. If I did I should wash it in beer."

At that moment Mr. Wycherly called the boys to go out with him, and they

rushed off leaving Jane-Anne to digest this seemingly simple specific

for curly hair.

Reflection unfollowed by action was impossible to Jane-Anne.

The beds were made. Her share of the dusting was done. The boys and

Mr. Wycherly would be out until luncheon, and her aunt was busy in the

kitchen where she strongly objected to have Jane-Anne, as she described

it, "clutterin' round."

There was a large cask of beer in the cellar, and the key was in the

door. The cellar was to the front of the house under the dining-room,

and was consequently some distance from the kitchen.

Jane-Anne rushed upstairs, seized her large bedroom jug, emptied it, and

descended with it to the cellar.

The cask was near the steps, and, with the door at the top left open,

she could see quite well. She turned the tap and the good brown ale

foamed gaily into the jug.

Just as, by its weight, she judged it to be about half full, she heard a

sound as though her aunt were coming.

She seized her jug and rushed up the steps, forgetting to shut the door

at the top, and hid in the parlour. No, she was wrong, Mrs. Dew was

still busy in the kitchen.

As quietly as she could, she crept back to her room, and, once there,

bolted the door.

Her heart was thumping in her ears, and she panted with excitement.

She had a good large basin in her room and a foot-bath. She chose the

foot-bath and what was in the jug filled it half full of the strong

brown ale of Oxford.

What a smell it had!

Jane-Anne knelt down, unplaited her hair and shook it forward over her

face. She held her nose tightly with one hand and with the other

plunged her heavy mane into the foaming beer. The smell was

overpowering. She was obliged to let go of her nose for she was

choking, and as she did so the beer, forced higher in the foot-bath by

the mass of hair, splashed her in the face.

Gasping and choking, she persevered; she laved her head with beer, she

rubbed it in with both hands, rejoicing that it made a beautiful lather,

and she spat out vigorously what had been forced into her open mouth

while she held her nose.

It was a horrible experience, but the blood of the Spartans ran in

Jane-Anne's veins, and she endured till every hair and a large

proportion of her upper garments was thoroughly saturated with beer.

At last she felt the treatment had had full justice, and she drew out

what appeared to be yards of sticky, sodden pulp that had once been

human hair.

"Of course it won't curl till it's dry," she said to herself, and

proceeded to sprinkle more beer about her bedroom in her efforts to free

her hair from that nourishing beverage.

But it wouldn't dry.

Her bedroom already smelt like ten public-houses rolled into one, and

brown stains were everywhere.

Not a ripple nor a rib appeared on her matted and bedraggled head.

Her towels were already saturated with beer, and only seemed to make

matters worse.

Her eyes smarted and her nose was scarlet. The strong smell made her

feel quite faint.

She began to cry bitterly; her hair was stickier than ever and showed no

signs of even waving.

In her ardent pursuit of beauty she had forgotten that explanation would

be necessary, and what explanation would be possible in the face of all

these stains and this terrific smell? She hung her head out of the

window and it dripped into the stone-cutter's yard.

A man passed underneath, sniffed, and looked up; all he saw was a wet

mass of something that dripped beer. "Waste o' good liquor," he

muttered, and passed on.

Jane-Anne was getting desperate when there came a rattling of the handle

of her door, a hasty push against it, then a tremendous knocking and

Edmund's voice:

"Are you there, Jane-Anne?"

"Yes," in a muffled sniff.

"What are you doing? Come out."

"I can't."

"Well, let me in, then. I want to speak to you."

"I daren't."

"Oh, nonsense, let me in quick, I say, I've something important to tell

you."

Curiosity was too strong in her to resist this. She opened the door,

hiding herself behind it as she did so.

"Good gracious!" exclaimed Edmund. "It's here, too."

Then, as he saw the foot-bath on the floor, the beery stains everywhere,

and lastly, the distracted figure behind the door shrouded in sticky

locks that still dripped beer, he subsided upon the bed in fits of

laughter.

Jane-Anne banged the door, bolted it, and faced him indignantly.

"Why are you laughing?" she demanded.

"You've never gone and done it really--well, you _are_ the simplest

juggins."

"D'you mean," Jane-Anne demanded sternly, "that it _doesn't_ make hair

curl?"

"Not that I know of," gurgled the perjured boy; "it may," and relapsing

into howls of mirth he buried his face in her pillow to stifle them.

Jane-Anne clasped her beery hands and wrung them. "And I've endured all

this for nothing," she cried indignantly.

"And wasted a whole cask of beer," Edmund continued. "You left it

running, and the cellar's flooded and you can smell us half-way down the

street; there's quite a little crowd outside," he announced gleefully.

"I wish I was dead," she moaned.

"I'd have a bath if I were you, quick," said Edmund. "If you're safe in

there, locked in, no one can get at you. Mrs. Dew and Montagu and

Guardie are all at the cellar. Montagu's wading about in it, scooping

it up, and I want to go too, only I thought it would be mean not to

fetch you----"

"You can't be meaner than you've been already," she cried angrily. "Why

did you tell me such a lie?"

"Nonsense like that isn't lies," Edmund answered, angry in his turn.

"It's chaff. I never dreamt you'd be such a fool as to go and do it."

"Is it really no use?" she pleaded, still clinging fondly even yet to

the hope that all might not have been in vain.

Edmund looked at her and began to laugh again.

*CHAPTER XVII*

*THE PHILOSOPHY OF EFFORT*

"A man's fortunes are the fruits of his character." RALPH WALDO

EMERSON.

When one has passed fifty, four years--provided no one of them brings

severe illness or great sorrow--make little if any difference in outward

appearance. Time is usually kind to the middle-aged, and it is only

when we reach middle-age ourselves, and the dear old landmarks are

removed one by one, that we realise how much we unconsciously depended

on this stability of appearance, this changelessness in those who helped

to shape our destiny.

Thus if there was little change in Mrs. Dew and Mr. Wycherly four years

after Jane-Anne had flooded the Holywell cellar with beer, Jane-Anne

herself and the boys looked back upon the children of that time with a

kind of affectionate scorn.

Montagu was now taller than Mr. Wycherly, thin-faced and analytic as

ever, only waiting for the following October to take up his scholarship

at New College.

Edmund was on the _Britannia_, all uniform and gold buttons, naval

phrases, and nonsense. When he appeared for his "leaves" (he scorned to

call it holidays) he imported so much liveliness and laughter, to say

nothing of visitors from the outer world, into the quiet household that

during these hilarious weeks Jane-Anne forgot to be earnest.

For Jane-Anne was very earnest.

Four years of school-life had wrought great changes in Jane-Anne.

For one thing, no one any longer had to worry about her lungs.

Crepitations were things of the past. She was strong as a Shetland pony

with fully as much endurance.

There was nothing in her physique to prevent her becoming a most

efficient housemaid. Moreover, she was tall enough for even the most

exacting situation. But even Mrs. Dew had ceased to include that idea

among practical politics.

For Jane-Anne had turned out "clever at her books" beyond all

expectation. She went first of all to a nice school over Magdalen

Bridge, but she got on so fast and was so unusually receptive a pupil

that the head mistress herself called upon Mr. Wycherly and suggested

that Jane-Anne should go on to the High School. Mr. Wycherly consulted

Lord Dursley, who still continued to take a vicarious sort of interest

in the child, and the matter was arranged without much difficulty.

Here Jane-Anne fell under the influence of Miss Willows and became

strenuous and earnest to the last degree.

Miss Willows taught the top form, and she did more than teach it, she

moulded it.

She was twenty-eight years old and was fully determined to be a head

mistress herself before many years had passed. She was of the stuff

head mistresses are made and she was modern of the moderns. She was

tall and strong and handsome, good at games and a first in classics, and

hers was indeed the doctrine of perfection.

"Don't only try to do things as well as other people," she would say;

"try to do them a little better. Never be content with mediocrity."

Courage and strength were her watchwords and her ambition was that her

girls should go forth into the world not to be shielded from temptation

but armed to withstand it. Silliness she abhorred, and, satisfactory

pupil as Jane-Anne was, she was thankful that Miss Willows could not, as

she put it, "see inside her," for Jane-Anne was conscious that she

frequently lapsed from grace, was often frankly and unashamedly silly

and enjoyed it.

Miss Willows was always beautifully dressed, and taught her girls to

care a good deal about their clothes. She was sarcastic, and the clumsy

and untidy trembled before her.

Jane-Anne never trembled. She admired and adored and perhaps "inside"

she was a little afraid of her, but outwardly she was quite fearless,

and Miss Willows respected her in consequence. Even more did she

respect the girl's quite extraordinary command of English and her

familiarity with schools of philosophy that were to most of the class

mere names.

Miss Willows had settled Jane-Anne's career. She was to go on to one of

the women's colleges and then she was to teach. It was her plain duty.

Jane-Anne said nothing, seemed to acquiesce in all these wise and

benevolent plans on her behalf, and all the time dreamed dreams and saw

visions of something very different indeed.

She had not wavered in her allegiance to Lord Byron. He was still her

hero, and she stoutly refused to displace him by Mr. Robert Browning,

who was the chosen prophet of Miss Willows.

"Lord Byron is so obvious," that lady said one day, when she had found

fault with a quotation from "Childe Harold" that Jane-Anne had dragged

into an essay.

"It is impossible to misunderstand what he means," Jane-Anne said

quickly, ever ready to take up arms on behalf of "her oldest friend," as

she called him.

"He is not subtle," Miss Willows continued.

"He is never obscure, never unmusical," quoth Jane-Anne.

"I am sorry," Miss Willows said gravely, "that you make such a hero of

Lord Byron, the more so, that, from what I can make out, you do not do

so in ignorance of his character. You say you have read his life?"

"Years ago."

Miss Willows made a point of never being shocked at anything her girls

might say--to be shocked showed weakness. Nevertheless, she rather

wondered what Mr. Wycherly could have been about to allow such a thing.

And there was a black mark against him in her mind.

Curiously enough, it was Mr. Wycherly himself who first aroused

Jane-Anne to any enthusiasm for the works of Robert Browning, and it

came about in this way.

She still passionately desired curly hair. It was the desire of the

moth for the star, for her hair remained obstinately straight. That it

was beautiful in colour, texture and abundance, did not comfort her; it

was straight, uncompromisingly straight, though it maintained its

upward, outward sweep round her broad, low forehead.

Mr. Wycherly thought it was hard for Jane-Anne to have no money, and

insisted on paying her five shillings a month for waiting upon him. Out

of this, her aunt insisted that she must keep herself in stockings and

gloves, which the child faithfully did.

But a girl at school enlightened her as to the uses of curling tongs,

and Jane-Anne succumbed to temptation. She borrowed the goffering

irons, heated them in the kitchen fire and burnt both her hair and her

forehead rather badly.

Mr. Wycherly was infinitely more distressed about this than over the

beer episode and took her gently to task for trying to improve upon what

Nature had already made so harmonious and pleasing to the eye.

That was the way to get at Jane-Anne. As always, she was perfectly

frank with him.

"Miss Willows says it is the duty of everyone to look as pretty as

possible. 'Do your best and then think nothing more about it,' she

says. But I seem obliged to think about it. You see, I _know_ I'd be so

much nicer if my hair was frizzy."

"But I don't think you would," Mr. Wycherly argued. "Your type is

severe and classical; 'frizziness' would be quite dreadful and

incongruous."

"But could _anyone_ be beautiful with straight hair?"

"Why not?"

"Lord Byron had wavy hair, _you_ have wavy hair, all the goddesses and

people and Helen of Troy had wavy hair."

"I assure you," Mr. Wycherly declared, absently passing a long, slender

hand over his thick white locks, "I never think about my hair at all,

except when I have to go and get it cut."

"You never think about it, my dear, because you are so sure it is all

right. You _know_ you are a most beautiful old person and that people

must admire you if they looked at you at all, _therefore_ you can afford

not to think about it."

"My dear Jane-Anne, you are talking nonsense."

"I'm not; really, truly, not. I often see people look at you in the

street and I often hear them say nice things----"

"Good heavens," cried Mr. Wycherly, "how dreadful!"

"I shouldn't think it a bit dreadful if they said such things about me,"

Jane-Anne said, "but they don't yet--not often."

"Do they ever?" Mr. Wycherly asked anxiously.

"If I told you, you would say it was impertinent, so I won't tell you,

dear master."

"Will you promise me to let your hair alone?"

"If I promise, I should have to," Jane-Anne said doubtfully.

"That's why I want you to promise."

"Will a year do?" pleaded Jane-Anne.

"Three years," Mr. Wycherly maintained.

Jane-Anne sighed deeply. "Well, I promise--but if at the end of that

time I find something that will really truly make it curl, without

smelling horrible or burning or spoiling it----"

"Three years will do," said Mr. Wycherly.

That evening when she went to say good-night to him he read her "A

Face," by Robert Browning.

"If one could have that little head of hers

Painted upon a background of pure gold...."

Jane-Anne listened, breathless, charmed. When he had finished he turned

to her:

"That always makes me think of you, and I wish I could have you painted

so. But you wouldn't be a bit like it if you had different hair."

Jane-Anne was silent for nearly two minutes; then she said thoughtfully:

"I rather like Browning's poetry after all. I'll quote a bit in my next

scripture just to please Miss Willows."

At first her position in the school was something of an anomaly. Her

exceptional ability and her fleetness of foot gave her an assured place

in the school work and games at once. Her personal appearance and her

eager charm brought her friends. Then one of the girls, who had asked

her to tea, a girl living in a large house in the Woodstock Road, whose

people had nothing whatever to do with any of the colleges, discovered

that she was no relation to the old gentleman in whose house she lived

and that her aunt was his servant.

The girl was horrified, told every girl she could get to listen, and

always concluded the harangue with the remark: "We all know the school's

mixed enough, but it's getting a bit too much when they take the

daughters of domestic servants. Someone ought to write and complain."

She forthwith cut Jane-Anne, as did several others. Jane-Anne was

puzzled, then angry, and finally forced the girl to explain her conduct

in the playground.

"Your aunt's his servant," the girl concluded, "and we don't like it."

"I'm his servant, too," Jane-Anne said haughtily, "and I'd rather be his

servant than your friend any day."

"You won't have much chance of being that," the girl said angrily. "I

wouldn't be seen with you for the world."

"The whole of Oxford," cried Jane-Anne, "can see me with him, and he's a

great gentleman and a scholar; and you--you're a carroty-haired,

ill-bred little nobody who can't write a French exercise without getting

somebody else to do half of it."

The school took sides, and the best and cleverest half finally sided

with Jane-Anne. She never told anybody but Montagu what she had gone

through, but whenever any new girl made friendly advances Jane-Anne took

care to inform her that Mrs. Dew, Mr. Wycherly's housekeeper, was her

aunt, that she loved her and wasn't in the least ashamed of it. "And

now," she always concluded, "you can go on being friends with me or not,

just as you choose."

The girls were friendly enough in school, but she knew very few of them

at home. Those she did know were nearly all friends of Mrs. Methuen and

girls whose position was assured. Thus it happened that Jane-Anne's few

friends were the nicest girls in the school. But she had very little

time for friendship. She still helped her aunt in the house as much as

ever she could. She had really hard and heavy homework to prepare--only

her extraordinary quickness got her through it in the time she allowed

for it, and she was, moreover, always to the fore if any play or

recitation or fancy dancing was toward. She was so easily and far

beyond any other girl in things of that sort that she could never be

spared. The dancing-class was her greatest joy. Mr. Wycherly had

insisted on her learning to dance whenever she went to school. He paid

the fees himself, and sometimes even braved the phalanx of girls at the

class in order to go himself and see her dance.

And once a year Curly came with his company and acted in the Oxford

Theatre. Mr. Wycherly always took Jane-Anne and Curly always came to

see them in Holywell, and every time he came he asked Mr. Wycherly the

same question: "Well, and have you settled yet what she is to be?"

"She talks," said Mr. Wycherly, "of being a teacher of dancing--but it

seems to me that in that case her education is rather thrown away."

"A teacher of dancing!" Curly repeated ironically. "I think I see her

teaching dancing for long."

"She came to me last night," Mr. Wycherly continued, as though he had

not heard, "and asked abruptly, 'Do you think one can serve God and

dance for a living?'"

"Ah," said Curly, "that's a different thing; and what did you say, sir?"

"I fear," said Mr. Wycherly humbly, "that I made no very definite

answer."

"I should like to know what you think," Curly persisted. "You consider

dancing to be one of the beautiful and delightful arts?"

"I do."

"And in Jane-Anne that art finds the subtlest and most delicate

expression?"

Mr. Wycherly groaned.

"Why should she not serve God as well in that way as in any other?"

"Because," said Mr. Wycherly haughtily, "I should dislike it extremely."

Curly laughed.

"I have an idea," he said, "that Miss Allegra Stavrides will find

another mode of expressing the artist that is in her."

Mr. Wycherly groaned again. "She is so young," he said; "why should she

be anything at all for years and years?"

"Because," said Curly, "the race is to the swift, and the child is very

fleet of foot."

"You will not, promise me you will not, say or do anything to put such

an idea into her head," Mr. Wycherly pleaded.

"My dear old friend, the idea has been there for years--and it is quite

possible it may come to nothing."

But though Curly spake comfortable words there was no conviction in his

voice.

*CHAPTER XVIII*

*GANTRY BILL*

"Oh, why are eyes of hazel? noses Grecian!

I've lost my rest at night, my peace by day,

For want of some brown holland or Venetian,

Over the way."

TOM HOOD

Old Holywell in Oxford town is an interesting street. Not only does

every house there differ from its neighbour, but the inhabitants are

just as varied.

Opposite Mr. Wycherly's was a tall, straight, grey house, which had been

let as rooms to generations of undergraduates when the time came for

them to "live out." Some two years before, Jane-Anne had watched these

young gentlemen, as she then still called them, with the greatest

interest; in fact, undergraduates as a class held for her one supreme

possibility--one of them might fulfil in the flesh all she had dreamed

in the spirit of Lord Byron.

She had never met one that in the least resembled her dream. They were,

for the most part, broad-shouldered, brown-faced, exceedingly untidy

young men, who slouched about Oxford in ancient Norfolk jackets, baggy

grey flannel trousers, and slippers down at the heel. Most of them

looked in the best of health and spirits. The few who might, perhaps,

be suspected of soulfulness were so plain-looking, that she dismissed

them at once; they were out of the running altogether.

Montagu was good-looking in a straight-featured, quiet sort of way.

Edmund was radiantly and riotously handsome. Mr. Wycherly, in

Jane-Anne's opinion and that of several other people, was the most

beautiful person in Oxford. Therefore she was hard to please.

After she came under the influence of Miss Willows, young men interested

her no more. True to her theory that every eventuality should be met

fearlessly, Miss Willows never omitted the possibility of marriage from

talks with her girls. With her, they regarded it as a rather

commonplace fate, that might perhaps fall to the lot of some of them.

But there were many more interesting things in life than that.

Miss Willows never, by word or look, hinted to her girls that young men

were dangerous, and therefore to be avoided. They were there in Oxford

in large numbers, let the girls meet them in society if possible, let

them judge of them dispassionately. Let there be no glamour of the

forbidden about them. They might talk to them; listen to them; weigh

their conversation in the balance of reason, and--she always added

inwardly--"find it wanting." But she never said this; she implied it,

and the girls, with youthful earnestness and scorn, finished the

sentence for themselves.

Jane-Anne met no young men. Every undergraduate at New College knew Mr.

Wycherly by sight, but not one knew any more of him. At the time when

Jane-Anne took an interest in them they took no sort of interest in her.

Now that she was tall and straight, with frocks down to her ankles, and

bright eyes that rained influence, a good many undergraduates wished

they knew Mr. Wycherly. As for Jane-Anne, she desired no notice from

foolish young men. The notice she craved was larger and more impersonal,

and although she was an impatient young person, she was content to wait

for it. She knew that she was not wasting her time. She studied Greek

dramatists with Mr. Wycherly, and read eagerly every word of his

translation of Aristotle's "Poetics," laying to heart many of its

maxims. She walked to and from school by herself, she went on

occasional errands for Mrs. Dew, but beyond that she was rarely seen in

Oxford except accompanied by Mr. Wycherly. With him she wandered in

college gardens, and by the banks of the Cherwell. When the boys came

back, she spent long days on the river with them, and every new dance

she learned at school she danced again for "the master," and in summer

always danced barefooted on the lawn.

Mr. Wycherly allowed her to do her evening work in the parlour, which

was quieter than the housekeeper's room in such close proximity to Mrs.

Dew. The May nights were hot, and Jane-Anne opened the window and drew

back the short white curtains to let in as much air as possible. People

might look in if they liked. It mattered nothing to Jane-Anne, loftily

absorbed in work for Miss Willows.

There she sat at the round, rosewood table in the middle of the room,

the electric light shaded and drawn low over her papers (Mr. Wycherly

never allowed her to work in a bad light), her delicate Greek profile

presented to every chance observer, severe, detached, an example of

studious girlhood most edifying to behold.

So evidently thought the undergraduate who lived opposite. For no

sooner had she turned on her light than he extinguished his and took a

seat in the window, which, a little above the level of hers, commanded

an excellent view of Mr. Wycherly's parlour. His watch was shared by a

white bull terrier, who spent long hours sitting on the sill.

That undergraduate was a rowing man, the Eights came on in another

fortnight, and in the evenings he "did a slack."

He was musical, this undergraduate, possessed a piano and a pleasing

tenor voice, and sometimes after dinner, although Jane-Anne would not

have dreamed of interrupting her work for one instant to listen, she was

vaguely conscious that the music was agreeable, and was sorry when it

ceased.

One evening, however, she did listen, for there came from the house

opposite strains that were, to her, curiously familiar; a queer,

old-fashioned song, and then with a little leap of the heart she

recognised a poem she knew and loved. The young man opposite had

evidently been well taught, it was quite possible to hear his words. She

stopped short in the middle of a complicated sentence to the effect that

the aim of discipline is to produce a self-governing unit, laid down her

pen, and, forgetful that the light was behind her, went to the window

and leaned out.

The young man seated at the piano in the darkness of the room opposite

smiled gleefully, and sang more loudly and with increased fervour:

"By those tresses unconfined

Woo'd by each AEgean wind;

By those lids whose jetty fringe

Kiss thy soft cheek's blooming tinge;

By those soft eyes like the roe ..."

Then followed the passionate Greek invocation with which each line of

Byron's "Maid of Athens" concludes.

Miss Willows would doubtless have dismissed words and music as hackneyed

and obvious. But her pupil had read the verses till she knew them by

heart, feeling, as in the case of "She walks in beauty like the night,"

that Lord Byron had written them for her and about her; she had not

heard them sung since her mother sang them to her when she was a very

little child. Now in the soft spring night the once familiar strains

came floating across the quiet street charged full of innocent and

tender memories.

In the semi-darkness, Jane-Anne beheld a ghostly white dog, seated

solemn and sedate on the window-ledge. The dog also noticed Jane-Anne,

and while his master still passionately proclaimed the fact that his

heart had passed into the possession of "The Maid of Athens," the dog

pricked forward his long ears, after the fashion of a bull-terrier when

interested, and wagged his tail. At that instant the music ceased with

a crash of chords.

"Oh, you dear!" exclaimed Jane-Anne, and went back to her work.

The singer came and sat in the window again.

"Gantry Bill," he said softly, "which of us did she call a dear?"

Gantry Bill wagged his tail again.

_He_ hadn't the smallest doubt.

"That seemed to fetch her rather," the singer continued.

Gantry Bill evidently thought this a foolish remark, for he made no

response.

"It's a shame to make such a pretty girl work so hard, ain't it, Bill?"

Here Gantry Bill was more sympathetic, and tried to lick his master's

face.

"We'll try another," said that gentleman, "we'll fetch her again, won't

us, Bill?"

But he sang the most passionate love songs in his repertoire, apparently

to deaf ears. The little head, with its cameo-like profile and dark

wealth of hair, remained studiously bent under the shaded light. The

self-governing unit had triumphed.

Her opposite neighbour might shout himself hoarse for all she cared.

She wanted full marks and a "plus" for her essay.

Night after night that week from the house opposite a tenor voice

apostrophised some peerless she. But never again did Jane-Anne go to

the window, and Gantry Bill laid his head sideways on his paws, his ears

flopped forwards, and snored gently, while his master, at the top of his

voice, proclaimed "the thousand beauties that he knew so well."

He was a patient dog, Gantry Bill. More patient than his master who,

by-and-bye, gave it up as a bad job--and went out. He occasionally

attended lectures, too, whither the dog could not accompany him. Then

would Bill sit on the window-ledge watching the passers-by with a wise

reflective air, or sleep in that pathetic abandonment of attitude

habitual to the bull-terrier.

Jane-Anne sometimes crossed the street, spoke to him, caressed him, and

peeped into the empty room behind--a most untidy room.

"Poor doggie," she said, one Saturday afternoon, "alone so much; would

you like to come and play in our garden, Gantry Bill? It's much cooler

than over here. The master's out, and you'll not bother anybody."

Gantry Bill looked at her, and evidently was tempted. In fact, a pretty

girl in a white frock on a hot July afternoon is always a pleasing

apparition.

Very slowly, like a stiff old gentleman, Gantry Bill arose and stood on

the window-ledge. He smiled at Jane-Anne, and playfully took her hand

into his mouth and mumbled it, in token of his approval.

"He's gone to the boats, he'll be hours and hours," she said. "I saw

him rushing up the street in those awful little short knickerbockers,

and you left all alone to mope, poor dear! Why shouldn't you have a

little amusement, too?"

This appeared a sound argument. Gantry Bill dropped from the

window-ledge into the street, and followed Jane-Anne across the road.

Into the garden she took him by devious ways that did not challenge the

observation of Mrs. Dew. She fetched him water in a pie-dish and

presented him with a chocolate biscuit, then she sat down under the

apple-tree to mend her stockings. But Gantry Bill hadn't come out for

the afternoon to watch people mend stockings.

He spied a hockey ball lying on the path, seized it in his mouth, and

galumphed heavily towards Jane-Anne, laid it at her feet, barked and

made a series of short rushes at her in token that he desired to play.

"Hush," said Jane-Anne, holding up a needle in her finger and thumb,

"you mustn't bark, else aunt'll hear you and come out. What do you

want?"

Another short rush, another "wouf," and an eager head, ears cocked

forward, eyes beseeching Jane-Anne.

"You want me to throw it, do you?"

This was exactly what Gantry Bill did want, and for twenty minutes he

kept Jane-Anne very busy indeed. Then, hot and exhausted, they both sat

down under the apple-tree, and she was permitted to mend her stocking.

This was the first of many meetings.

Gantry Bill's master had no idea his dog made assignations with the

young lady of the Greek profile and the long, thick pig-tail. Otherwise

he would have insisted upon an introduction. She showed no signs of

playing Eurydice to his Orpheus, sang he never so. None of his pals knew

Mr. Wycherly, and Mr. Wycherly's friends in Oxford he did not know; and

just because the thing seemed so impossible he ardently desired to meet

Jane-Anne, and he had never wanted much to know any girl before. He was

not a ladies' man.

After all, it was Gantry Bill who brought the thing about.

Mrs. Dew was very particular about eggs. Shop eggs she declined to use

even for the "egg and bread crumb" of fish, and all eggs in Holywell

came from an old woman who lived on the Iffley Road, kept large numbers

of fowls, and sold her eggs to a chosen few who would fetch them.

It was one of Jane-Anne's duties to fetch eggs twice a week. It

happened, however, that Mrs. Dew "ran short" one day when she

particularly wanted to make an omelette for Mr. Wycherly's dinner. So

after tea she sent Jane-Anne, with a shilling tucked into her glove, to

bring the required eggs. Jane-Anne walked quickly and procured the eggs

without adventure of any kind, carrying them in a little round basket

shaped like the hilt of a single-stick.

It was hot, and on her return she walked more slowly, dreaming as she

went. She held the basket rather loosely in one hand, and was quite

unprepared when a heavy body bounced at her from behind and knocked her

over. The basket flew from her hand, the eggs were scattered and

smashed; and much startled and confused she felt two strong hands under

her armpits that raised her to her feet, while a penitent voice

exclaimed:

"I say, I am most awfully sorry; it's that brute of a dog. I can't

think what possessed him to bounce at you like that. He's never done it

before to anybody. I do _hope_ you're not hurt or very frightened.

Down, sir! Down, you brute! You shall have a good thrashing for this."

Jane-Anne recovered her senses to perceive that a tall young man, in a

blazer and white flannel trousers, had picked her up, that two other

young men stood by, looking rather amused, and that Gantry Bill was

cringing at her feet in evident expectation of the beating his master

had promised him, while round about them the broken eggs were drawing

maps upon the dusty road.

"Please don't beat him," she said, hastily settling her hat, which had

been knocked over her nose. "He didn't mean to knock me down; he was

only saying how-do-you-do. He's a great friend of mine, really."

"Lucky beggar," said the young man; "but I don't see why he should show

his friendship in such an inconvenient fashion. He must be a tremendous

weight to knock you down like that."

The two other young men had discreetly strolled on. Jane-Anne, Gantry

Bill and his master stood in the road encircled by broken eggs, and

looked at one another. Jane-Anne saw a tall, broad-shouldered young man

with a brown face, a very clean brown face that had once been fair. He

was not handsome--his nose was too broad and his mouth too big; but he

had splendid strong white teeth and merry blue eyes, which, at that

moment, looked into her own full of contrition and commiseration.

"I think," he added hastily, "that we are neighbours; don't you live

opposite?"

"That's how I knew your dog," Jane-Anne explained. "You leave him alone

a great deal."

"I can't take him to lectures."

"I'm sure he'd behave very well. But, as I was saying, you leave him

alone and I was sorry for him, and so he sometimes comes and visits me,

and we're great friends, aren't we, Gantry Bill?"

"You know his name?" the young man exclaimed.

"Of course. I'm not deaf, and the street is not wide. Oh, dear!

whatever shall I do about the eggs?"

"Where did you get them, and we'll go and get some more?"

"But I haven't any more money, and we always pay for them."

"Of course, you must allow me to pay for them. My dog broke them."

"If you wouldn't mind--just for to-day. You see, if I don't take them

back aunt couldn't make an omelette for Mr. Wycherly's dinner."

"Let's go and get them at once. We can get them at the nearest

grocer's."

"Oh, you needn't trouble to come with me. I must go back, for aunt

won't get eggs anywhere else. If you could lend me the shilling----"

"I'm going to carry those eggs, and see you safe home. You might feel

faint or something after such a shock."

Jane-Anne laughed, but she did not forbid him to accompany her. Gantry

Bill gambolled on ahead, and together they bought another shilling's

worth of eggs from Mrs. Dew's old woman.

As they walked down the Iffley Road together, he said rather

diffidently: "Gantry Bill is more fortunate than his master, since he

seems to know you, Miss Wycherly."

"My name's not Wycherly," Jane-Anne answered. "It's Stavrides. I'm no

relation to Mr. Wycherly; my aunt is his housekeeper, and he lets me

live there. I love him dearly."

"My name's George Gordon."

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Are you any relation to Lord Byron?"

"Certainly not, I'm glad to say," he remarked decidedly. "We're quite

another lot of Gordons. It's a big clan, you know. We're the

Dumfrieshire Gordons. The poet was a gloomy sort of chap, wasn't he?"

Jane-Anne stood still, and gazed at the Gordon at her side with great

indignation.

"Gloomy," she repeated; "sad, if you like, sometimes, but very witty and

amusing; have you read his letters?"

George Gordon hung his head; the brown eyes looking up into his were so

grave and accusing.

"I'm afraid I know very little about him," he said humbly; "perhaps he

was an ancestor of yours--I'm awfully sorry----"

Again Jane-Anne laughed, and he thought she had the prettiest laugh.

"Do you only defend people when they are your relations?" she asked. "I

admire Lord Byron's poetry, and I am grateful to him because he gave his

life for my country--but he's not the least little bit of an ancestor.

I don't think I've got any."

"That must be rather jolly, because then you can play off your own bat,

and people aren't always expecting things of you because your

great-great-uncle did something or other last century."

"Oh, I'd like them if I'd got them," she said; "but as I haven't--it's

no use fretting. Have you a great many?"

"Nothing to speak of," he said, blushing. "I can't think how we've got

on to such a footling subject. You like Gantry Bill, don't you?"

"He's a perfect dear, but why is he called Gantry Bill? What's gantry

mean--I looked it up in the dictionary, and it says----"

"Oh, it's nothing to do with that--it's some soldiers' lingo--he

belonged to my elder brother; he's a gunner and he had to go to Nigeria

and couldn't take him, so he gave him to me. He's a faithful beast, and

understands every word you say to him."

By this time they had reached Long Wall, and as they strolled along in

intimate converse they met Miss Willows, who looked hard at Jane-Anne

and her escort carrying the basket of eggs.

When they reached the archway leading into the builder's yard, Jane-Anne

stopped and bade him farewell.

"I can't pay you the shilling now," she said, "for I haven't got one,

but the minute I have one I'll bring it over. I've spent my allowance

for this month already."

"Oh, please," he said, looking most unhappy; "please don't speak of it.

I broke the eggs, at least Bill did--so, of course----"

"Good-bye," said Jane-Anne, and vanished in at the side-door.

George Gordon crossed the road very slowly, with Gantry Bill following

sedately at his heels; when they reached his sitting-room he sank

heavily into the chair by the window, and the bull-terrier leapt up on

to his seat on the window-sill.

"I say, Bill," his master asked, "how have you contrived to see so much

of her?"

The shilling weighed heavily on Jane-Anne's mind. She could not repay

it herself, for she had spent four-and-elevenpence-halfpenny on the

first of May, the day she got her allowance, on a pair of black silk

stockings declared to be "half-price," which she had greatly coveted to

dance in.

Mrs. Dew would undoubtedly repay the shilling, but she would, at the

same time, ask so many questions and comment so severely on Jane-Anne's

carelessness, and (this was what Jane-Anne particularly dreaded) express

such horror at her "forwardness" in walking home with George Gordon,

that Jane-Anne simply could not summon up enough moral courage to

confess herself to her aunt.

Therefore, as had happened hundreds of times in the past, there was

nothing for it but to go to "the master" who would, she knew, get her

out of the difficulty, and ask no questions. Yet--she felt shy even of

the master.

Suppose he forbade her ever to speak to George Gordon or Gantry Bill

again?

Still, the shilling must be got back to George Gordon that night, and it

was already seven o'clock, time for her to lay dinner. She ran up to

Mr. Wycherly's study, and found him sitting in his arm-chair by the

window reading Horace.

She went and stood before his chair, clasped her hands behind her, and

announced:

"I broke a whole basketful of eggs, sir, this afternoon. They cost a

shilling."

"Do you think," said Mr. Wycherly, smiling, "that the domestic exchequer

will stand such a heavy drain upon it?"

"But that's not all," she continued breathlessly. "He picked me up, and

as I hadn't another shilling he paid for the eggs, and I've spent all my

money, and can't pay him back till June. Will you lend me the money to

pay him?"

Mr. Wycherly no longer lounged in his chair. He sat up very straight,

but he spoke gently as usual, saying:

"Do you mind explaining to me who 'he' is, and why you should need to be

picked up?"

"Gantry Bill, that's his dog, bounced at me from behind; we're great

friends and he was glad to see me, and I was thinking deeply, and he

knocked me over and the eggs flew all about and made a great mess, so he

helped me up and we went together to buy more eggs, and he carried them

home for me."

"Gantry Bill, as you call him," Mr. Wycherly said, his eyes twinkling,

"seems a very remarkable dog. First, he knocks you down, then he picks

you up and gives you a shilling to buy eggs, which he politely carries

home for you. Is it this intelligent animal that you propose to repay?"

"No," said Jane-Anne, blushing hotly; "it's the intelligent animal's

master. He lives just opposite. He's at New College."

"And is it he who is such a great friend of yours?" Mr. Wycherly asked,

as though it were the most natural conclusion possible.

"No," said Jane-Anne, rosier than ever; "I never spoke to him before,

though I knew him by sight. He's rather nice," she added; "his name is

George Gordon, but he's no relation to dear Lord Byron--and he doesn't

seem a bit sorry. May I take the shilling over?"

"I think," said Mr. Wycherly, "that perhaps it would be better if I took

him the shilling myself. After all, you know, the eggs were for the

house, and therefore my affair."

"Oh, would you?" cried Jane-Anne. "That is perfectly lovely of you, and

then you'll see him, and see if you like him."

"Exactly," said Mr. Wycherly, "that's why I want to go."

"You will give it back to-night, won't you?" she begged.

"Directly after dinner; I hope he will be at home."

"Oh, he's sure to be at home," she said simply. "He generally sings

then; I hear him while I'm working. He sings 'Maid of Athens' most

beautifully."

"Does he indeed?" said Mr. Wycherly.

*CHAPTER XIX*

*THE STARLING FLIES AWAY*

"What is to come we know not. But we know

That what has been was good....

Let the great winds their worst and wildest blow,

Or the gold weather round us mellow slow:

We have fulfilled ourselves, and we can dare

And we can conquer, though we may not share

In the rich quiet of the afterglow

What is to come."

W. E. HENLEY.

While Mr. Wycherly was still sitting over his port, Mrs. Dew brought him

a note that had come by hand. He opened it, and found that it was from

Miss Willows. Now, Mr. Wycherly knew very little of Miss Willows. She

had, it is true, been to tea with Jane-Anne on two occasions, when the

child had implored him to be present. Of course, Jane-Anne was dying to

"show him" to Miss Willows. That lady felt his charm, but she doubted

whether he was a very safe or suitable guardian for so unusual a girl.

What she had seen that afternoon convinced her that her doubts were

justified, and she felt that not a moment must be lost. It was

necessary to awake in him a sense of his responsibilities, therefore she

wrote:

"DEAR MR. WYCHERLY,

"I feel sure you will acquit me of any desire to be fussily interfering

if I venture to ask whether it is with your knowledge and approval that

Jane-Anne walks with undergraduates in the evening after tea. I hope

you know me too well to imagine that any foolish prudery or even an

exaggerated sense of the importance of Mrs. Grundy's opinion causes me

to bring the subject before you. It is only that while Jane-Anne is so

young, while she is working so hard, it would be wiser, I think, to

discourage intimate association with the other sex except under proper

auspices. Pray do not mistake me. I should like Jane-Anne to have

plenty of young male society but not to saunter about the roads

_tete-a-tete_ with any one youth during term time. If you can see your

way to oblige me in this I shall be grateful.

"Very faithfully yours,

"DOROTHY WILLOWS."

Mr. Wycherly read the note twice very carefully, folded it, put it back

in the envelope and, without waiting to finish his port, went for his

hat. He crossed the road. Mr. Gordon, seated as usual at his open

window with Gantry Bill in attendance, saw him coming, turned extremely

red and went himself to open the door, without waiting for his visitor

to knock.

Jane-Anne, seated at her studies in the parlour, also saw Mr. Wycherly's

pilgrimage across the road, and was filled with satisfaction that her

debt was to be so speedily discharged.

"Are you Mr. Gordon?" Mr. Wycherly asked as the door was opened before

he could knock.

"I am; will you come in, sir?"

Mr. Wycherly accepted the invitation and came in. The experience caused

his heart to beat a little faster. It was so many years since he had

been in an undergraduate's room. The past came back with a rush. What

a lot of water had flowed under Magdalen Bridge since those dear, far

off, happy, and, afterwards, most miserable days.

"Won't you sit down, sir?" young Gordon said hospitably.

Mr. Wycherly sat down. "I come," he said, "to discharge a debt," and

laid a shilling on the table beside him, "and I must thank you for

carrying home the eggs for my ward."

"It's very good of you," the young man mumbled, looking much confused;

"it was nothing really; you see, my dog was the cause of the accident.

I was bound to replace the eggs."

"My ward begged me to pay her debt at once. That is my reason for

invading you at such an unseasonable hour, but since you have received

me so hospitably, I wonder if you would further allow me to ask you a

question, Mr. Gordon?"

There was no light in the room save the grey gloaming of a May evening.

Across the road Mr. Wycherly could see a brilliant, luminous square

defining his own parlour window; he was too short-sighted to see the

studious figure seated at the table, but he perceived that she must be

plainly visible to those possessing normal sight.

"Certainly, sir," young Gordon said politely.

"You probably"--here Mr. Wycherly turned a kind, inquiring gaze upon his

young host--"have sisters?" Mr. Gordon bowed. "I have been out of the

way of these things for so long that it is possible I may make

mistakes--I shall be extremely obliged if you will tell me--quite

frankly, do you think we do wrong in allowing Miss Stavrides to walk

about Oxford by herself?"

George Gordon looked very hot indeed. The last thing he had dreamt of

was that this dignified, white-haired old gentleman should consult him

about anything. Honest himself, he was touched at the evident

earnestness and simplicity that craved his opinion. Acting almost

automatically, he lit the gas and stood well in the centre of the light,

looking fairly and squarely at his guest.

"Since you do me the honour to ask me, sir, I should say that there is

not the smallest harm in allowing Miss Stavrides to walk alone anywhere.

If she were my sister, I shouldn't be a bit afraid because, you see,

she's not that sort----"

"Yes," said Mr. Wycherly; "please tell me why."

"It's a little difficult," the young man continued, "without sounding a

bit of a cad--but it's like this. She walks along thinking her own

thoughts, and if she looks at you--she seems to look through you. Now,

there are girls, nice girls, pretty girls--ladies--quite ladies, you

know--and yet you know they've seen you. Well, all I can say is, you're

jolly well sure Miss Stavrides hasn't--and so it's no good."

"And yet," Mr. Wycherly said smoothly, "she seemed to be aware of your

existence."

George Gordon thrust his hands deep into his pockets, but he still

looked Mr. Wycherly straight in the eyes.

"She couldn't help that. My dog--somehow--upon my honour, I don't know

how or why, seems awfully fond of her. He knocked her down jumping on

her playfully, when she didn't expect it--and what could I do? But--I

think it's only fair to tell you, I've been dying to know her ever since

I came to these rooms, and I hope I shall see her again. She is, I

suppose you know it, sir, an extremely attractive girl, because she's so

unusual."

Mr. Wycherly rose and held out his hand:

"I am greatly obliged to you," he said. "You have been very frank and

helpful. It will give me great pleasure if you will come and see

us--and as a personal favour, I would ask you not to walk in the streets

with her again, for her sake."

"I should like awfully to come, sir. It's very kind of you. It's my

last term, so you won't be troubled with me for long."

Gantry Bill rose slowly and majestically from his place in the window,

dropped to the floor, and came and sniffed at Mr. Wycherly. George

Gordon pulled himself together with a mighty effort, and said somewhat

huskily: "You know, sir, I think she ought to have a blind or something.

Anyone can see her."

Mr. Wycherly stooped to pat Gantry Bill.

"I am still very much in your debt," he said.

* * * * *

That summer Montagu went in the vacation with a reading party to

Brittany. Mr. Wycherly took Edmund and Jane-Anne to Burnhead, in

Midlothian, where he had spent so many years, and Mrs. Dew went to stay

with Lord Dursley's housekeeper.

The minister lived in the house that had belonged to Miss Esperance; Mr.

Wycherly and the two young people lodged with her old servant, Robina.

While they were there Curly came to see the minister, who was his

father, and during the week he spent in Burnhead, he made Jane-Anne,

through Mr. Wycherly, the offer of a definite engagement in a company he

was going on tour with after Christmas. She would, of course, at first

only walk on. After that she would be entrusted with small parts and

then--her chance might come. The company was good in more senses than

one. The actresses were ladies, two of them married to members of the

company, and Jane-Anne would be well looked after.

The project flung Mr. Wycherly into a perfect tempest of worry. Had

Curly so much as hinted the possibility of such a thing to Jane-Anne

herself, he would have felt that he had just cause for grievance. But

he knew that Curly had done nothing of the kind, and that it lay with

him, and with him only, to suppress or put before her this, to him,

detestable plan.

There could be but one outcome. Mr. Wycherly's sense of honour would

not allow him to conceal from Jane-Anne an opportunity he feared she

would be only too ready to grasp. And that same sense precluded his

laying the matter before her himself. He knew that he was so biassed

that he must place the whole scheme in a most unattractive light; and

his very faculty for seeing all round a question prevented his

expressing the actively hostile views he most certainly held.

Therefore, he left Curly to lay the question before her.

This Curly did, and actuated, perhaps, by a somewhat similar spirit to

Mr. Wycherly's, he hid from the girl nothing of the disagreeables she

was likely to encounter. He painted the life of little more than a

super with a travelling company as the reverse of pleasant. He spared

her no sordid detail, he exaggerated rather than minimised all she would

have to endure.

With downcast eyes and lips that trembled a little, she heard him in

silence to the end. Then she turned her large gaze upon him, and asked:

"But shall I learn things?"

"It is the only way to learn things."

"Then, if the master will let me, I will come."

"He doesn't like it. He hates the idea. It will make him very unhappy.

He will miss you dreadfully."

"Montagu will be at New College then. He will be always in and out. I

wouldn't go if the master would be all alone. But with Montagu

there--it makes all the difference----"

"I don't know even now that he will consent."

"I think," said Jane-Anne, "that he will allow me to go, because he is

so just."

But Mr. Wycherly refused to give a definite opinion.

"We will wait till December," he said.

So Jane-Anne went back to school, and Mr. Wycherly sent for Miss Willows

and explained the situation to her. To his surprise and dismay she

sided with Jane-Anne. This was fine of Miss Willows, for she had set

her heart on Jane-Anne's doing brilliantly at Lady Margaret Hall. But

she understood the girl. She realised her powers and her limitations,

and she was one who, in looking into the future for her girls, would

fain have them hitch their horses to the stars. She believed that

Jane-Anne might become a fairly successful teacher, but she was certain

that she had it in her to become a great actress. Miss Willows detested

mediocrity.

An unexpected ally for Mr. Wycherly appeared in the person of George

Gordon, who, having got a moderate degree, came back to Oxford to see

everybody before he settled in London to read for the bar. With him he

brought Gantry Bill as an offering for Jane-Anne, who embraced the dog

fondly, exclaiming:

"I shall love him, if the master will keep him for me, but I don't

expect I shall be here after Christmas, you know, except when I can get

away for a little holiday."

"Not here?" he exclaimed. "Where are you going--abroad to study?"

"No, I'm probably going on the stage--at least, to study for the stage."

"The stage. _You?_"

"Why not?"

"Because it's unthinkable, because I hate it, because--I want you so

myself."

Jane-Anne looked very serious, but she didn't blush or show any signs of

confusion.

"I shouldn't make a nice wife," she remarked.

"I think you would make an adorable wife--but, of course, we couldn't

marry just yet," he added honestly; "I've not got enough to make you

comfortable; but we could wait--and I'll work like the dickens

and--you're very young."

"For the matter of that, so are you, but it isn't a question of youth or

age. There's something I've got to do, and I must do it. Marrying and

things like that must come after. I fancy"--here she raised her solemn,

candid eyes--"everything will come after--always."

George Gordon looked so miserable that Gantry Bill went to him,

stretched up and licked one of the hands that hung so limp and

melancholy at his sides.

"Mr. Wycherly would have liked it," he said sadly. "I spoke to him last

night, and he gave me leave to come to-day. He would have allowed us to

be engaged."

Jane-Anne gave a little laugh. "I am engaged," she said, "to Mr.

Wendover's touring company."

"Damn Mr. Wendover!" exclaimed her angry suitor. "I'm awfully sorry,

but you can't think how I hate it. Will you keep Bill? Mr. Wycherly

said he might stay here. I can't have him in London, he'd be so

miserable."

"We shall love Bill," she said gently.

Towards Christmas a bazaar was held in which Mrs. Methuen was much

interested, and among the side-shows was a little duologue which she and

Jane-Anne played together. It happened that Curly's company was in

Oxford at the time, and one afternoon he dragged Mr. Wycherly to the

bazaar to see Jane-Anne act.

Now, although Mr. Wycherly had seen her dance hundreds of times, he had

never seen her act. He could not screw his courage to the point of

facing the crowd of parents assembled at the school theatricals, and

Mrs. Methuen had never yet induced him to come and see the little plays

she was so fond of getting up in aid of various charities.

This time, however, wearied by Curly's importunities and fortified by

his company, he was persuaded, and found himself seated in front of a

red curtain, in the second row of chairs, while, pince-nez on nose, he

studied a programme which bore the legend "A Joint Household."

Jane-Anne had gone to lunch with Mrs. Methuen so as to be ready for the

play which came fairly early in the afternoon.

The noisy piano ceased, the curtain was rung up, and the two ladies,

who, with their husbands, had agreed to share a house for the summer

holidays, one after the other appeared upon the scene.

Mrs. Methuen was unmistakable; pretty, eager, much concerned for the

future comfort of her absent lord.