nd gloomy, then Rachel might have doubted
that passionate discovery of the world that she now felt was hers, but
here with this blazing sun and sky the note was sustained. Surely never
again would Rachel be afraid of her grandmother, surely never again
would she be afraid of anyone. Holding herself very proudly in a dress
that was a soft primrose colour and in a hat that was dark and shady,
Rachel looked round about her on the world.

"There's Lady Massiter!" Lady Adela smiled lightly and bowed a very
little--"Monty Carfax is with her."

Rachel thought of Lord Massiter, and wondered again at last night's
dinner--"How could I have been like that? How _could_ I?"

There passed them a very handsome carriage with a little dark handsome
lady who looked happily round about her, all alone in her magnificence.
Rachel did not know whether her aunt had seen or no: here was the
Beaminster arch-enemy, Mrs. Bronson, a young American widow, incredibly
rich, incredibly fascinating, incredibly bold. Mrs. Bronson had been in
London only a year, had snapped her jewelled fingers at the Beaminsters
and everything that they stood for, had laughed at snubs and threats,
was intending, so it was said, to have London at her feet in a season or
two.

Rachel considered her. She was like some jewelled bird of paradise. She
was--one must admit it--better suited to this glorious day than was Aunt
Adela.

Why need Aunt Adela refuse to be glad because the sun was shining? Why
could not Aunt Adela have said something pleasant about last night's
dance? Why must this absurd outward dignity be so carefully maintained?
Why when one was looking attractive in a primrose dress could one's aunt
not say so?

That reminded her of Roddy Seddon.

She liked him. He might be a real friend like Dr. Christopher. The
thought of him made her, as she sat there in the sun, feel doubly
certain that the world was a comfortable, reassuring place and that that
vision of cold spaces and dark forests that had been so often with her
was now to be banished like an evil dream never to return.

At the end of Grosvenor Street the trees were so green that they might
have been painted, and here they were at Uncle Richard's house.

II

But, with the closing of Uncle Richard's doors the sun was taken from
the world. Uncle Richard's house was always soft and dim, like one of
those little jewel cases, all wadding and dark wood. Uncle Richard's
carpets were so thick and soft