ssip with Altiora in front of her drawing-room fire. One
got her alone, and that early arrival was a little sign of appreciation
she valued. She had every woman's need of followers and servants.

"I'm going to send you down to-night," she said, "with a very
interesting type indeed--one of the new generation of serious gals.
Middle-class origin--and quite well off. Rich in fact. Her step-father
was a solicitor and something of an ENTREPRENEUR towards the end, I
fancy--in the Black Country. There was a little brother died, and she's
lost her mother quite recently. Quite on her own, so to speak. She's
never been out into society very much, and doesn't seem really very
anxious to go.... Not exactly an intellectual person, you know, but
quiet, and great force of character. Came up to London on her own and
came to us--someone had told her we were the sort of people to advise
her--to ask what to do. I'm sure she'll interest you."

"What CAN people of that sort do?" I asked. "Is she capable of
investigation?"

Altiora compressed her lips and shook her head. She always did shake her
head when you asked that of anyone.

"Of course what she ought to do," said Altiora, with her silk dress
pulled back from her knee before the fire, and with a lift of her voice
towards a chuckle at her daring way of putting things, "is to marry a
member of Parliament and see he does his work.... Perhaps she will.
It's a very exceptional gal who can do anything by herself--quite
exceptional. The more serious they are--without being exceptional--the
more we want them to marry."

Her exposition was truncated by the entry of the type in question.

"Well!" cried Altiora turning, and with a high note of welcome, "HERE
you are!"

Margaret had gained in dignity and prettiness by the lapse of five
years, and she was now very beautifully and richly and simply dressed.
Her fair hair had been done in some way that made it seem softer and
more abundant than it was in my memory, and a gleam of purple velvet-set
diamonds showed amidst its mist of little golden and brown lines.
Her dress was of white and violet, the last trace of mourning for her
mother, and confessed the gracious droop of her tall and slender body.
She did not suggest Staffordshire at all, and I was puzzled for a moment
to think where I had met her. Her sweetly shaped mouth with the
slight obliquity of the lip and the little kink in her brow were
extraordinarily familiar to me. But she had