find something to do. It might not be easy. She would have to find
lodgings. The archway in Portsea Place materialised crudely. She could
hear the landlady from 84 detailing the last phase of rheumatics to the
slatternly maid who did for the grocer. Awful, awful. Perhaps she'd
never find another berth. What should she do?

Victoria pulled herself together with a start. 'This will never do,' she
said, 'there's lots of time to worry in. Now I must pack.' She got up,
drew the trunk into the middle of the room, opened it and took out the
tray. Then, methodically, as she had been taught to do by her mother,
she piled her belongings on the bed. In a few minutes it was filled with
the nondescript possessions of the nomad. Skirts, books, boots,
underclothing, an inkpot even, jostled one another in dangerous
proximity. Victoria surveyed the heap with some dismay; all her troubles
had vanished in the horror that comes over every packer: she would never
get it all in. She struggled for half an hour, putting the heavy things
at the bottom, piling blouses on the tray, cunningly secreting scent
bottles in shoes, stuffing handkerchiefs into odd corners. Then she
dropped the tray in, closed the lid and sat down upon it. The box
creaked a little and gave way. Victoria locked it and got up with a
little sigh of satisfaction. But she suddenly saw that the cupboard door
was ajar and that in it hung her best dress and a feather boa; on the
floor stood the packer's plague, shoes. It was quite hopeless to try and
get them in.

Victoria surveyed the difficulty for a moment; then she regretfully
decided that she must ask Mrs Holt for a cardboard box, for her hat-box
was already mortgaged. A nuisance. But rather no, she would ask the
parlourmaid. She went to the door and was surprised to find it locked.
She turned the key slowly, looking round at the cheerful little room,
every article of which was stupid without being offensive. It was hard,
after all, to leave all this, without knowing where to go.

Victoria opened the door and jumped back with a little cry. Before her
stood Jack. He had stolen up silently and waited. His face had flushed
as he saw her; in his eyes was the misery of a sorrowful dog. His mouth,
always a little open, trembled with excitement.

'Jack,' cried Victoria, 'oh! what do you want?'

'I've come to say . . . oh! Victoria . . .' Jack broke down in the
middle of his carefully prepared sentence.

'Oh! go away,' said V