wish her? Her father, I am sorry to say, is not
altogether well. Indeed, I was guilty of doing my best to get him to
London for the winter.'

'Ah! That is something of which your letter made no mention.'

'No, for I didn't succeed. At least, he shook his head very
persistently.'

'I heartily wish you had succeeded. Couldn't you get help from
Annabel--Miss Newthorpe?'

'Never mind; let it be Annabel between us,' said Mrs. Ormonde, seating
herself near the fire. 'I tried to, but she was not fervent. All the
same, it is just possible, I think, that they may come. Mr. Newthorpe
needs society, however content he may believe himself. Annabel, to my
surprise, does really seem independent of such aids. How wonderfully
she has grown since I saw her two years ago! No, no, I don't mean
physically--though that is also true--but how her mind has grown! Even
her letters hadn't quite prepared me for what I found.'

Egremont was leaning on the back of a chair, his hands folded together.
He kept silence, and Mrs. Ormonde, with a glance at him, added:

'But she is something less than human at present. Probably that will
last for another year or so.'

'Less than human?'

'Abstract, impersonal. With the exception of her father, you were the
only living person of whom she voluntarily spoke to me.'

'She spoke of me?'

'Very naturally. Your accounts of Lambeth affair interest her deeply,
though again in rather too--what shall we call it?--too theoretical a
way. But that comes of her inexperience.'

'Still she at least speaks of me.'

Mrs. Ormonde could have made a discouraging rejoinder. She said nothing
for a moment, her eyes fixed on the fire. Then:

'But now for your own news.'

'What I have is unsatisfactory. A week ago the class suffered a
secession. You remember my description of Ackroyd?'

'Ackroyd? The young man of critical aspect?'

'The same. He has now missed two lectures, and I don't think he'll come
again.'

'Have you spoken to Bower about him?'

'No. The fact is, my impressions of Bower have continued to grow
unfavourable. Plainly, he cares next to nothing for the lectures. There
is a curious pomposity about him, too, which grates upon me. I
shouldn't have been at all sorry if he had been the seceder; he's bored
terribly, I know, yet he naturally feels bound to keep his place. But
I'm very sorry that Ackroyd has gone; he has brains, and I wanted to
get to know him. I shall not give him up; I must persuad