he hearthrug many arm-chairs to match with the rest. Above the
chimneypiece there is a gilt oval mirror, worth ten pounds. The second
room is Alice's study; it is there she writes her novels. A table in
black wood with a pile of MSS. neatly fastened together stands in one
corner; there is a bookcase just behind; its shelves are furnished with
imaginative literature, such as Shelley's poems, Wordsworth's poems,
Keats' poems. There are also handsome editions of Tennyson and Browning,
presents from Dr. Reed to his wife. You see a little higher up the shelf
a thin volume, Swinburne's _Atalanta in Calydon_, and next to it is
Walter Pater's _Renaissance_--studies in art and poetry. There are also
many volumes in yellow covers, evidently French novels.

The character of the house is therefore essentially provincial, and
shows that its occupants have not always lived amid the complex
influences of London life--viz., is not even suburban. Nevertheless,
here and there traces of new artistic impulses are seen. On the
mantelpiece in the larger room there are two large blue vases; on a
small table stands a pot in yellow porcelain, evidently from Morris's;
and on the walls there are engravings from Burne Jones. Every Thursday
afternoon numbers of ladies, all of whom write novels, assemble here to
drink tea and talk of their work.

It is now eleven o'clock in the morning. Alice enters her drawing-room.
You see her: a tall, spare woman with kind eyes, who carries her arms
stiffly. She has just finished her housekeeping, she puts down her
basket of keys, and with all the beautiful movement of the young mother
she takes up the crawling mass of white frock, kisses her son and
settles his blue sash. And when she has talked to him for a few minutes
she rings the bell for nurse; then she sits down to write. As usual, her
pen runs on without a perceptible pause. Words come to her easily, but
she has not finished the opening paragraph of the article she is writing
when the sound of rapid footsteps attracts her attention, and Olive
bursts into the room.

'Oh, Alice, how do you do? I couldn't stop at home any longer, I am sick
of it.'

'Couldn't stop at home any longer, Olive; what do you mean?'

'If you won't take me in, say so, and I'll go.'

'My dear Olive, I shall be delighted to have you with me; but why can't
you stop at home any longer--surely there is no harm in my asking?'

'Oh, I don't know; don't ask me; I am so miserable at ho