ior, under the tutelage of Helvetia Appleyard. His
earnestness, his enthusiasm, it quite touched the heart of Helvetia
Appleyard. There were many points, it is true, that puzzled Grindley
junior. Each time the list of them grew longer. But when Helvetia
Appleyard explained them, all became clear. She marvelled herself at her
own wisdom, that in a moment made darkness luminous to this young man;
his rapt attention while she talked, it was most encouraging. The boy
must surely be a genius. To think that but for her intuition he might
have remained wasted in a grocer's shop! To rescue such a gem from
oblivion, to polish it, was surely the duty of a conscientious Hypatia.
Two visits--three visits a week to the little shop in Rolls Court were
quite inadequate, so many passages there were requiring elucidation.
London in early morning became their classroom: the great, wide, empty,
silent streets; the mist-curtained parks, the silence broken only by the
blackbirds' amorous whistle, the thrushes' invitation to delight; the old
gardens, hidden behind narrow ways. Nathaniel George and Janet Helvetia
would rest upon a seat, no living creature within sight, save perhaps a
passing policeman or some dissipated cat. Janet Helvetia would expound.
Nathaniel George, his fine eyes fixed on hers, seemed never to tire of
drinking in her wisdom.

There were times when Janet Helvetia, to reassure herself as to the
maidenly correctness of her behaviour, had to recall quite forcibly the
fact that she was the daughter of Solomon Appleyard, owner of the big
printing establishment; and he a simple grocer. One day, raised a little
in the social scale, thanks to her, Nathaniel George would marry someone
in his own rank of life. Reflecting upon the future of Nathaniel George,
Janet Helvetia could not escape a shade of sadness. It was difficult to
imagine precisely the wife she would have chosen for Nathaniel George.
She hoped he would do nothing foolish. Rising young men so often marry
wives that hamper rather than help them.

One Sunday morning in late autumn, they walked and talked in the shady
garden of Lincoln's Inn. Greek they thought it was they had been
talking; as a matter of fact, a much older language. A young gardener
was watering flowers, and as they passed him he grinned. It was not an
offensive grin, rather a sympathetic grin; but Miss Appleyard didn't like
being grinned at. What was there to grin at? Her personal ap