hooting mournfully. For a while she stands in front of her
open window. The air is warm, and the faint scent of roses comes to her
from outside. A great pride wells up in her--a great pride and a great
love, for the sleeping glory in front of her belongs to her; to her and
her father and her brother." The girl's face was half-turned away, and
for a moment Vane watched the lovely profile gravely. "And then," he
went on slowly, "with a sigh she sits down in the big arm-chair close to
the window, and the black dog comes in and settles on her. In another
room in the house she sees her father, worrying, wondering whether
anything can be done, or whether the glory that has been theirs for
hundreds of years must pass into the hands of a stranger. . . . And
after a while the way out comes into her thoughts, and she stirs
restlessly in her chair. Because, though the girl in grey is one of the
set in her tribe who dance and feed in many public places, and which has
nothing in common with those who sit at home doing good works; yet she
possesses one or two strange, old-fashioned ideas, which she will hardly
ever admit even to herself. Just sometimes o' night they creep out as
she stares through the window, and the weird cries of the wild come
softly through the air. 'Somewhere, there is a Prince Charming,' they
whisper, and with a sigh she lets herself dream. At last she creeps back
to bed--and if she is very, very lucky the dreams go on in her sleep."
Vane knocked out his pipe on the side of the boat.

"It's only when morning comes," he went on, and there was a hint of
sadness in his voice, "that the strange, old-fashioned ideas creep shyly
into the corner. Along with the tea have come some of the new smart ones
which makes them feel badly dressed and dull. They feel that they are
gauche--and yet they know that they are beautiful--wonderfully beautiful
in their own badly dressed way. Timidly they watch from their
corner--hoping, hoping. . . . And then at last they just disappear.
They're only dream ideas, you see; I suppose they can't stand daylight
and tea with saccharine in it, and reality. . . . It's as they float
towards the window that sometimes they hear the girl talking to herself.
'Don't be a fool,' she says angrily, 'you've got to face facts, my dear.
And a possible.' Charming without a bean in the world isn't a fact--it's
a farce. It simply can't be done. . . . And three new very smart ideas
in their b