tion grew so
tense that the executors advised Cairns to sell the estate to the
tenants but the latter declined the terms; matters came to a deadlock
and it was quite on the cards that an application might be made under
the Irish Land Act. It was clear that in this case the terms would be
bad, and Cairns was called to Limerick by telegram as a last chance. He
left Victoria, grumbling and cursing Ireland and all things Irish.

Left to herself, Victoria felt rather at a loose end. The cheerful if
uninteresting personality of Major Cairns had a way of filling the
house. He had an expansive mind; it was almost chubby. For two days she
rather enjoyed her freedom. The summer was gorgeous; St John's Wood was
bursting everywhere into flower; the trees were growing opaque in the
parks. At every street corner little whirlwinds of dry grit swayed in
the hot air. One afternoon Victoria indulged in the luxury of a hired
private carriage, and flaunted it with the best in the long line on the
south side of the Park. Wedged for a quarter of an hour in the mass she
felt a glow come over her. The horses all round her shone like polished
wood, the carriage panels were lustrous, the harness was glittering, the
brass burnished; all the world seemed to radiate warmth and light. Gaily
enough, because not jaded by repetition, she caused the carriage to do
the Ring, twice. She felt for a moment that she was free, that she could
vie with those women whose lazy detachment she stirred for a moment into
curiosity by her deep eyes, dark piled hair and the audacity of her
diaphanous _crepe de chine_.

Cairns was still in Ireland, struggling conscientiously to pile up
unearned increment; and Victoria, thoroughly aimless, suddenly bethought
herself of Farwell. She had been remiss in what was almost a duty.
Surely she ought to report progress to the man who had helped to open
her eyes to the realities of life. She had misapplied his teaching
perhaps, or rather remoulded it, but still it was his teaching. Or
rather it was what a woman should know, as opposed to what Thomas
Farwell preached; if men were to practise that, then she should revise
her philosophy.

At ten minutes to one she entered the Moorgate Street P.R.R. with a
little thrill. Everything breathed familiarity; it was like coming home,
but better, for it is sweeter to revisit the place where one has
suffered, when one has emerged, than to brood with gentle sorrow on the
spot, where there on