death of
Mark Stansfield, and the genuine tears that flowed down the cheeks
of his pupils when they learnt one raw February morning from the
housekeeper of his chambers that he had died at daybreak. "A better
man never lived" they agreed. And they were right.

And she smiled again as she thought of some amongst those pupils,
the young dogs of those days, the lovers of actresses of the minor
order--ballet girls, it might have been; of the larks that went on
sometimes within and without the staid precincts of the Temple.
Harmless larks they were; but such as she had to withdraw from
discreetly. She played lawn tennis with them, she fenced
surprisingly well; but she had refused to join the "Devil's
Own"--the Inns of Court Volunteers, for prudent reasons; and though
it had leaked out that she was a good swimmer--that tiresome
impulsive Honoria had spread it abroad--she resolutely declined to
give proofs of her prowess in swimming baths. Her associates were
not so young as the undergraduates she had met in Newnham days: they
were an average ten years older. Their language at times made David
blush, but they had more discretion and reserve than the University
student, and they respected his desire to withdraw himself into
himself occasionally, and to abstain from their noisier amusements
without questioning his camaraderie.

At this point in her smiling reminiscences, the wardress clanged
open the door and slammed down a mug of cocoa and a slab of brown
bread; and rapped out some orders in such a martinet utterance that
they were difficult to understand. (Don't be alarmed! She isn't
about to be executed for having deceived the Benchers of the Inner
Temple in 1905; she is only in prison for a suffragist offence).]

I can't wind up this chapter somehow without more or less finishing
the story of Beryl Claridge. She has been a source of anxiety to my
wife--who has read these chapters one by one as they left my
typewriter. "Was it wise to bring her in?" "Well, but my dear, she
was rather a common type of the New Woman in the early nineteen
hundreds." "Yes--but--"

Of course the latent anxiety was that she might end up respectably.
And so she did. In 1906, the first Mrs. Storrington died at Ware
(Ware was where the architect husband had his legitimate home). She
had long been ill, increasingly ill of some terrible form of anaemia
which had followed the birth of her fourth child. She slowly faded
away, poor thing; and abou