fashion. Can he continue stern?"

"They seem to be as violent as the women who tore up Orpheus," said Lady
Gosstre.

Tracy Runningbrook shrieked, in a paroxysm, "Splendid!" from his couch on
the sward, and immediately ran off with the idea, bodily.

"Have I stumbled anywhere?" Lady Gosstre leaned to Mr. Powys.

He replied with a satiric sententiousness that told Lady Gosstre what she
wanted to know.

"This is the isolated case where a little knowledge is truly dangerous,"
said Lady Gosstre. "I prohibit girls from any allusion to the classics
until they have taken their degree and are warranted not to open the
wrong doors. On the whole, don't you think, Merthyr, it's better for
women to avoid that pool?"

"And accept what the noble creature chooses to bring to us in buckets,"
added Lady Charlotte. "What is your opinion, Georgey? I forget: Merthyr
has thought you worthy of instruction."

"Merthyr taught me in camp," said Georgians, looking at her brother--her
face showing peace and that confirmed calm delight habitual to it. "We
found that there are times in war when you can do nothing, and you are
feverish to be employed. Then, if you can bring your mind to study, you
are sure to learn quickly. I liked nothing better than Latin Grammar."

"Studying Latin Grammar to the tune of great guns must be a new
sensation," Freshfield Sumner observed.

"The pleasure is in getting rid of all sensation," said she. "I mean you
command it without at all crushing your excitement. You cannot feel a
fuller happiness than when you look back on those hours: at least, I
speak for myself."

"So," said Lady Gosstre, "Georgey did not waste her time after all,
Charlotte."

What the latter thought was: "She could not handle a sword or fire a
pistol. Would I have consented to be mere camp-baggage?" Yet no woman
admired Georgiana Ford so much. Disappointment vitiated many of Lady
Charlotte's first impulses; and not until strong antagonism had thrown
her upon her generosity could she do justice to the finer natures about
her. There was full life in her veins; and she was hearing the thirty
fatal bells that should be music to a woman, if melancholy music; and she
had not lived. Time, that sounded in her ears, as it kindled no past,
spoke of no future. She was in unceasing rivalry with all of her sex who
had a passion, or a fixed affection, or even an employment. A sense that
she was wronged by her fate haunted this lady. Rivalry on beha