lutely excluded her from hostile criticism. I could
not, however, extend that lenient judgment to Miss Metford. The girls
spoke and acted--as they had dressed themselves--very much alike. Only,
what seemed to me in the one a natural eccentricity, seemed in the other
an unnatural affectation.

I saw the guard passing, and, calling him over, gave him half-a-crown to
have the compartment labelled, "Engaged."

Miss Brande, who had been looking out of the window, absently asked my
reason for this precaution. I replied that I wanted the compartment
reserved for ourselves. I certainly did not want any staring and
otherwise offensive fellow-passengers.

"We don't want all the seats," she persisted.

"No," I admitted. "We don't want the extra seats. But I thought you
might like the privacy."

"The desire for privacy is an archaic emotion," Miss Metford remarked
sententiously, as she struck a match.

"Besides, it is so selfish. We may be crowding others," Miss Brande said
quietly.

I was glad she did not smoke.

"I don't want that now," I said to a porter who was hurrying up with a
label. To the girls I remarked a little snappishly, "Of course you are
quite right. You must excuse my ignorance."

"No, it is not ignorance," Miss Brande demurred. "You have been away so
much. You have hardly been in England, you told me, for years, and--"

"And progress has been marching in my absence," I interrupted.

"So it seems," Miss Metford remarked so significantly that I really
could not help retorting with as much emphasis, compatible with
politeness, as I could command:

"You see I am therefore unable to appreciate the New Woman, of whom I
have heard so much since I came home."

"The conventional New Woman is a grandmotherly old fossil," Miss Metford
said quietly.

This disposed of me. I leant back in my seat, and was rigidly silent.

Miles of green fields stippled with daisies and bordered with long
lines of white and red hawthorn hedges flew past. The smell of new-mown
hay filled the carriage with its sweet perfume, redolent of old
associations. My long absence dwindled to a short holiday. The world's
wide highways were far off. I was back in the English fields. My slight
annoyance passed away. I fell into a pleasant day-dream, which was
broken by a soft voice, every undulation of which I already knew by
heart.

"I am afraid you think us very advanced," it murmured.

"Very," I agreed, "but I look to you to bring even