Black William
A Princess of Thule
Suddenly Sheila seized her husband’s arm. They had got down to the river by Mortlake; and there, on the broad bosom of the stream, a long and slender boat was shooting by, pulled by four oarsmen clad in white flannel.
“How can they go out in such a boat?” said Sheila, with great alarm visible in her eyes. “It is scarcely a boat at all; and if they touch a rock or the wind catches them – ”
“Don’t be frightened, Sheila,” said her husband. “They are quite safe. There are no rocks in our rivers, and the wind does not give us squalls here like those on Loch Roag. You will see hundreds of those boats by and by, and perhaps you yourself will go out in one.”
“Oh, never, never!” she said, almost with a shudder.
“Why, if the people here heard you they would not know how brave a sailor you are. You are not afraid to go out at night by yourself on the sea, and you won’t go on a smooth inland river – ”
“But those boats; if you touch them they must go over.”
She seemed glad to get away from the river. She could not be persuaded of the safety of the slender craft of the Thames; and indeed for some time after seemed so strangely depressed that Lavender begged and prayed of her to tell him what was the matter. It was simple enough. She had heard him speak of his boating adventures. Was it in such boats as that she had just seen? and might he not be some day going out in one of them, and an accident – the breaking of an oar, a gust of wind —
There was nothing for it but to reassure her by a solemn promise that in no circumstances whatever would he, Lavender, go into a boat without her express permission, whereupon Sheila was as grateful to him as though he had dowered her with a kingdom.
This was not the Richmond Hill of her fancy – this spacious height, with its great mansions, its magnificent elms, and its view of all the Westward and wooded country, with the blue-white streak of the river winding through the green foliage. Where was the farm? The famous Lass of Richmond Hill must have lived on a farm, but here surely were the houses of great lords and nobles, which had apparently been there for years and years. And was this really a hotel that they stopped at – this great building that she could only compare to Stornoway Castle?
“Now, Sheila,” said Lavender, after they had ordered dinner and gone out, “mind you keep a tight hold on that leash, for Bras will see strange things in the Park.”
“It is I who will see strange things,” she said; and the prophecy was amply fulfilled. For as they went along the broad path, and came better into view of the splendid undulation of woodland and pasture and fern, when on the one hand they saw the Thames, far below them, flowing through the green and spacious valley, and on the other hand caught some dusky glimpse of the far white houses of London, it seemed to her that she had got into a new world, and that this world was far more beautiful than the great city she had left. She did not care so much for the famous view from the hill. She had cast one quick look to the horizon, with one throb of expectation that the sea might be there. There was no sea there – only the faint blue of long lines of country apparently without limit. Moreover, over the Western landscape a faint haze prevailed, that increased in the distance and softened down the more distant woods into a sober gray. That great extent of wooded plain, lying sleepily in its pale mists, was not so cheerful as the scene around her, where the sunlight was sharp and clear, the air fresh, the trees flooded with a pure and bright color.
Here, indeed, was a cheerful and beautiful world, and she was full of curiosity to know all about it and its strange features. What was the name of this tree? and how did it differ from that? Were not these rabbits over by the fence? and did rabbits live in the midst of trees and bushes? What sort of wood was the fence made of? and was it not terribly expensive to have such a protection? Could not he tell the cost of a wooden fence? Why did they not use wire netting? Was not that a loch away down there? and what was its name? A loch without a name! Did the salmon come up to it? and did any sea birds ever come inland and build their nests on its margin?
“Oh, Bras, you must come and look at the loch. It is a long time since you will see a loch.”
And away she went through the thick breckan, holding on to the swaying leash that held the galloping grayhound, and running swiftly as though she had been making down for the shore to get out the Maighdean-mhara.
“Sheila,” called her husband, “don’t be foolish!”
“Sheila,” called Ingram, “have pity on an old man!”
Suddenly she stopped. A brace of partridges had sprung up at some distance, and, with a wild whirr of their wings, were now directing their low and rapid flight toward the bottom of the valley.
“What birds are those?” she said peremptorily.
She took no notice of the fact that her companions were pretty nearly too blown to speak. There was a brisk life and color in her face, and all her attention was absorbed in watching the flight of the birds. Lavender fancied he saw in the fixed and keen look something of old Mackenzie’s gray eye; it was the first trace of a likeness to her father he had seen.
“You bad girl!” he said, “they are partridges.”
She paid no heed to this reproach, for what were those other things over there underneath the trees? Bras had pricked up his ears, and there was a strange excitement in his look and in his trembling frame.
“Deer!” she cried, with her eyes as fixed as were those of the dog beside her.
“Well,” said the husband calmly; “what although they are deer?”
“But Bras – ” she said; and with that she caught the leash with both her hands.
“Bras won’t mind them if you keep him quiet. I suppose you can manage him better than I can. I wish we had brought a whip.”
“I would rather let him kill every deer in the Park than touch him with a whip,” said Sheila proudly.
“You fearful creature, you don’t know what you say. That is high treason. If George Ranger heard you he would have you hanged in front of the Star and Garter.”
“Who is George Ranger?” said Sheila with an air, as if she had said, “Do you know that I am the daughter of the King of Borva, and whoever touches me will have to answer to my papa, who is not afraid of any George Ranger?”
“He is a great lord who hangs all persons who disturb the deer in this Park.”
“But why do they not go away?” said Sheila, impatiently. “I have never seen any deer so stupid. It is their own fault if they are disturbed; why do they remain so near to people and to houses?”
“My dear child, if Bras wasn’t here you would probably find some of those deer coming up to see if you had any bits of sugar or pieces of bread about your pockets.”
“Then they are like sheep – they are not like deer,” she said, with some contempt. “If I could only tell Bras that it is sheep he will be looking at, he would not look any more. And so small they are! They are as small as the roe, but they have horns as big as many of the red deer. Do people eat them?”
“I suppose so.”
“And what will they cost?”
“I am sure I can’t tell you.”
“Are they as good as the roe or the big deer?”
“I don’t know that, either. I don’t think I ever ate fallow-deer. But you know they are not kept here for that purpose. A great many gentlemen in this country keep a lot of them in their parks merely to look pretty. They cost a great deal more than they produce.”
“They must eat up a great deal of fine grass,” said Sheila, almost sorrowfully. “It is a beautiful ground for sheep – no rushes, no peat-moss, only fine, good grass and dry land. I should like my papa to see all this beautiful ground.”
“I fancy he has seen it.”
“Was my papa here?”
“I think he said so.”
“And did he see those deer?”
“Doubtless.”
“He never told me of them.”
By this time they had pretty nearly got down to the little lake, and Bras had been alternately coaxed and threatened into a quiescent mood. Sheila evidently expected to hear a flapping of sea-fowls’ wings when they got near the margin, and looked all around for the first sudden dart from the banks. But a dead silence prevailed, and as there were neither fish nor birds to watch, she went along to a wooden bench and sat down there, one of her companions on each hand. It was a pretty scene that lay before her – the small stretch of water ruffled with the wind, but showing a dash of blue sky here and there, the trees in the inclosure beyond clad in their summer foliage, the smooth green sward shining in the afternoon sunlight. Here, at least, was absolute quiet after the roar of London; and it was somewhat wistfully that she asked her husband how far this place was from her home, and whether, when he was at work, she could not come down here by herself.
“Certainly,” he said, never dreaming that she would think of doing such a thing.
By-and-by they returned to the hotel, and while they sat at dinner a great fire of sunset spread over the West, and the far woods became of a rich purple, streaked here and there with lines of a pale white mist. The river caught the glow of the crimson clouds above, and shone duskily red amid the dark green of the trees. Deeper and deeper grew the color of the sun as it sank to the horizon, until it disappeared behind one low bar of purple cloud, and the wild glow in the West slowly faded away, the river became pallid and indistinct, the white mists over the distant woods seemed to grow denser, and then, as here and there a lamp was lit far down in the valley, one or two pale stars appeared in the sky overhead, and the night came on apace.
“It is so strange,” Sheila said, “to find the darkness coming on and not to hear the sound of the waves. I wonder if it is a fine night at Borva!”
Her husband went over to her and led her back to the table, where the candles, shining over the white cloth and the colored glasses, offered a more cheerful picture than the deepening landscape outside. They were in a private room, so that when dinner was over, Sheila was allowed to amuse herself with the fruit, while her two companions lit their cigars. Where was the quaint old piano now, and the glass of hot whisky and water, and the “Lament of Monaltrie” or “Love in thine eyes for ever plays?” It seemed but for the greatness of the room, to be a repetition of one of those evenings at Borva, that now belonged to a far off past. Here was Sheila, not minding the smoke, listening to Ingram as of old, and sometimes saying something in that sweetly inflected speech of hers; here was Ingram, talking, as it were, out of a brown study, and morosely objecting to pretty nearly everything Lavender said, but always ready to prove Sheila right; and Lavender himself, as unlike a married man as ever, talking impatiently, impetuously and wildly, except at such times as he said something to his young wife, and then some brief smile and look, or some pat on the hand said more than words. But where, Sheila may have thought, was the one wanting to complete the group? Has he gone down to Borvapost to see about the cargoes of fish to be sent off in the morning? Perhaps he is talking to Duncan outside about the cleaning of the guns, or making up cartridges in the kitchen. When Sheila’s attention wandered away from the talk of her companions she could not help listening for the sound of the waves; and as there was no such message coming to her from the great wooded plain without, her fancy took her away across that mighty country she had traveled through, and carried her up to the island of Loch Roag, until she almost fancied she could smell the peat-smoke in the night air, and listen to the sea, and hear her father pacing up and down the gravel outside the house, perhaps thinking of her as she was thinking of him.
This little excursion to Richmond was long remembered by those three. It was the last of their meetings before Sheila was ushered into the big world to busy herself with new occupations and cares. It was a pleasant little journey throughout, for as they got into the landau to drive back to town, the moon was shining high up in the Southern heavens, and the air was mild and fresh, so that they had the carriage opened, and Sheila, well wrapped up, lay and looked around her with a strange wonder and joy as they drove underneath the shadow of the trees and out again into the clear sheen of the night. They saw the river, too, flowing smoothly and palely down between its dark banks; and somehow here the silence checked them, and they hummed no more those duets they used to sing up at Borva. Of what were they thinking, then, as they drove through the clear night along the lonely road? Lavender, at least, was rejoicing at his great good fortune that he had secured for ever to himself the true-hearted girl who now sat opposite to him, with the moonlight touching her face and hair; and he was laughing to himself at the notion that he did not properly appreciate her, or understand her, or perceive her real character. If not he, who then? Had he not watched every turn of her disposition, every expression of her wishes, every grace of her manner and look of her eyes? and was he not overjoyed to find that the more he knew of her the more he loved her?
Marriage had increased rather than diminished the mystery and wonder he had woven about her. He was more her lover now than he had been before his marriage. Who could see in her eyes what he saw? Elderly folks can look at a girl’s eyes and see that they are brown or blue or green, as the case may be; but the lover looks at them and sees in them the magic mirror of a hundred possible worlds. How can he fathom the sea of dreams that lies there, or tell what strange fancies or reminiscences may be involved in an absent look? Is she thinking of starlit nights on some distant lake, or of the old by-gone days on the hills? All her former life is told there, and yet but half told, and he longs to become possessed of all the beautiful past that she has seen. Here is a constant mystery to him, and there is a singular and wistful attraction for him in those still deeps where the thoughts and dreams of an innocent soul lie but half revealed. He does not see those things in the eyes of women he is not in love with; but when, in after years, he is carelessly regarding this or the other woman, some chance look, some brief and sudden turn of expression, will recall to him, as with a stroke of lightning, all the old wonder-time, and his heart will go nigh to breaking to think that he has grown old, and that he has forgotten so much, and that the fair, wild days of romance and longing are passed away forever.
“Ingram thinks I don’t understand you yet, Sheila,” he said to her, after they had got home and their friends had gone.
Sheila only laughed, and said, “I don’t understand myself sometimes.”
“Eh? What?” he cried. “Do you mean to say that I have married a conundrum? If I have I don’t mean to give you up, anyway, so you may go and get a biscuit and a drop of the whisky we brought from the North with us.”
CHAPTER XI.
THE FIRST PLUNGE
FRANK LAVENDER was a good deal more concerned than he chose to show about the effect that Sheila was likely to produce on his aunt; and when at length the day arrived on which the young folks were to go down to Kensington Gore, he had inwardly to confess that Sheila seemed a great deal less perturbed than himself. Her perfect calmness and self-possession surprised him. The manner in which she had dressed herself, with certain modifications which he could not help approving, according to the fashion of the time, seemed to him a miracle of dexterity; and how had she acquired the art of looking at ease in this attire, which was much more cumbrous than she had usually worn in Borva?
If Lavender had but known the truth, he would have begun to believe something of what Ingram had vaguely hinted. This poor girl was looking toward her visit to Kensington Gore as the most painful trial of her life. While she was outwardly calm and firm, and even cheerful, her heart sank within her as she thought of the dreaded interview. Those garments which she wore with such an appearance of ease and comfort, had been the result of many an hour of anxiety, for how was she to tell, from her husband’s raillery, what colors the terrible old lady in Kensington would probably like? He did not know that every word he said in joke about his aunt’s temper, her peevish ways, the awful consequences of offending her, and so forth, were like so many needles stuck into the girl’s heart, until she was ready to cry out to be released from this fearful ordeal. Moreover, as the day came near what he could not see in her she saw in him. Was she likely to be reassured when she perceived that her husband, in spite of all his fun, was really anxious, and when she knew that some blunder on her part might ruin him? In fact, if he had suspected for a moment that she was really trembling to think of what might happen, he might have made some effort to give her courage. But apparently Sheila was as cool and collected as if he had been going to see John the Piper. He believed she could have gone to be presented to the Queen without a single tremor of heart.
Still, he was a man, and therefore bound to assume an air of patronage. “She won’t eat you, really,” he said to Sheila, as they were driving in a hansom down Kensington Palace Gardens. “All you have got to do is to believe in her theories of food. She won’t make you a martyr to them. She measures every half ounce of what she eats, but she won’t starve you; and I am glad to think, Sheila, that you have brought a remarkably good and sensible appetite with you from the Lewis. Oh, by the way, take care you say nothing against Marcus Aurelius.”
“I don’t know who he was, dear,” observed Sheila, meekly.
“He was a Roman emperor and a philosopher. I suppose it was because he was an emperor that he found it easy to be a philosopher. However, my aunt is nuts on Marcus Aurelius: I beg your pardon, you don’t know the phrase. My aunt makes Marcus Aurelius her Bible, and she is sure to read you bits from him, which you must believe, you know.”
“I will try,” said Sheila, doubtfully, “but if – ”
“Oh, it has nothing to do with religion. I don’t think anybody knows what Marcus Aurelius means, so you may as well believe it. Ingram swears by him, but he is always full of odd crotchets.”
“Does Mr. Ingram believe in Marcus Aurelius?” said Sheila, with some accession of interest.
“Why, he gave my aunt the book years ago – confound him! – and ever since she has been a nuisance to her friends. For my own part, you know, I don’t believe that Marcus Aurelius was quite such an ass as Plato. He talks the same sort of perpetual commonplaces, but it isn’t about the true, the good and the beautiful. Would you like me to repeat one of the dialogues of Plato – about the immorality of Mr. Cole and the moral effect of the South Kensington Museum?”
“No, dear, I shouldn’t,” said Sheila.
“You deprive yourself of a treat, but never mind. Here we are at my aunt’s house.”
Sheila timidly glanced at the place, while her husband paid the cabman. It was a tall, narrow, dingy-looking house of dark brick, with some black-green ivy at the foot of the walls, and with crimson curtains formally arranged in every one of the windows. If Mrs. Lavender was a rich old lady, why did she live in such a gloomy building? Sheila had seen beautiful white houses in all parts of London; her own house, for example, was ever so much more cheerful than this one, and yet she had heard with awe of the value of this depressing little mansion in Kensington Gore.
The door was opened by a man, who showed them upstairs and announced their names. Sheila’s heart beat quickly. She entered the drawing-room with a sort of mist before her eyes, and found herself going forward to a lady who sat at the farther end. She had a strangely vivid impression, amid all her alarm, that this old lady looked like the withered kernel of a nut. Or, was she not like a cockatoo? It was through no anticipation of dislike to Mrs. Lavender that the imagination of the girl got hold of that notion. But the old lady held her head like a cockatoo. What was there, moreover, about the decorations of her head that reminded one of a cockatoo when it puts up its crest and causes its feathers to look like sticks of celery.
“Aunt Caroline, this is my wife.”
“I am glad to see you, dear,” said the old lady, giving her hand, but not rising. “Sit down. When you are a little nervous you ought to sit down. Frank, give me that ammonia from the mantelpiece.”
It was a small glass phial, and labeled “Poison.” She smelt the stopper, and then handed it to Sheila, telling her to do the same.
“Why did your maid do your hair in such a way?” she asked suddenly.
“I haven’t got a maid,” said Sheila, “and I always do my hair so.”
“Don’t be offended. I like it. But you must not make a fool of yourself. Your hair is too much that of a country beauty going to a ball. Paterson will show you how to do your hair.”
“Oh, I say, aunt,” cried Lavender, with a fine show of carelessness, “you mustn’t go and spoil her hair. I think it is very pretty as it is, and that woman of yours would simply go and make a mop of it. You’d think the girls nowadays dressed their hair by shoving their head into a furze bush and giving it a couple of turns.”
She paid no heed to him, but turned to Sheila and said, “You are an only child?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you leave your father?”
The question was rather a cruel one, and it stung Sheila into answering bravely. “Because my husband wished me.”
“Oh! You think your husband is to be the first law of your life?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Even when he is only silly Frank Lavender?”
Sheila rose. There was a quivering of her lips, but no weakness in the proud, indignant look of her eyes:
“What you may say of me, that I do not care. But I will not remain to hear my husband insulted.”
“Sheila,” said Lavender, vexed and anxious, and yet pleased at the same time by the courage of the girl – “Sheila, it is only a joke. You must not mind; it is only a bit of fun.”
“I do not understand such jests,” she said, calmly.
“Sit down, like a good girl,” said the old lady with an air of absolute indifference. “I did not mean to offend you. Sit down and be quiet. You will destroy your nervous system if you give way to such impulses. I think you are healthy. I like the look of you, but you will never reach a good age, as I hope to do, except by moderating your passions. That is well; now take the ammonia again and give it to me. You don’t wish to die young, I suppose?”
“I am not afraid of dying,” said Sheila.
“Ring the bell, Frank.”
He did so, and a tall, spare, grave-faced woman appeared.
“Paterson, you must put luncheon on at two-ten. I ordered it at one-fifty, did I not?”
“Yes, m’m.”
“See that it is served at two-ten, and take this young lady and get her hair properly done. You understand? My nephew and I will wait luncheon for her.”
“Yes, m’m.”
Sheila rose with a great swelling in her throat. All her courage had ebbed away. She had reflected how pained her husband would be if she did not please this old lady; and she was now prepared to do anything she was told, to receive meekly any remarks that might be made to her, to be quite obedient and gentle and submissive. But what was this tall and terrible woman going to do to her? Did she really mean to cut away those great masses of hair to which Mrs. Lavender had objected! Sheila would have let her hair be cut willingly for her husband’s sake; but as she went to the door some wild and despairing notions came into her head of what her husband might think of her when once she was shorn of this beautiful personal feature. Would he look at her with surprise – perhaps even with disappointment?
“Mind you don’t keep luncheon late,” he said to her as she passed him.
She but indistinctly heard him, so great was the trembling within her. Her father would scarcely know his altered Sheila when she went back to Borva; and what would Mairi say – Mairi who had many a time helped her to arrange those long tresses, and who was as proud of them as if they were her own? She followed Mrs. Lavender’s tall maid up-stairs. She entered a small dressing-room and glanced nervously around. Then she suddenly turned, looked for a moment at the woman, and said, with tears rushing up into her eyes: “Does Mrs. Lavender wish me to cut my hair?”
The woman regarded her with astonishment. “Cut, miss? – ma’am. I beg your pardon. No, ma’am, not at all. I suppose it is only some difference in the arrangement, ma’am. Mrs. Lavender is very particular about the hair, and she has asked me to show several ladies how to dress the hair in the way she likes. But perhaps you would prefer letting it remain as it is, ma’am?”
“Oh, no, not at all,” said Sheila. “I should like to have it just as Mrs. Lavender wishes – in every way just as she wishes. Only it will not be necessary to cut any?”
“Oh, no, miss – ma’am; and it would be a great pity, if I may say so, to cut your hair.”
Sheila was pleased to hear that. Here was a woman who had a large experience in such matters among those very ladies of her husband’s social circle whom she had been a little afraid to meet. Mrs. Paterson seemed to admire her hair as much as the simple Mairi had done; and Sheila soon began to have less fear of the terrible tiring woman, who forthwith proceeded with her task.
The young wife went down stairs with a tower upon her head. She was very uncomfortable. She had seen, it is true, that this method of dressing the hair really became her – or rather would become her in certain circumstances. It was grand, imposing, statuesque, but then she did not feel statuesque just at this moment. She could have dressed herself to suit this style of hair; she could have worn it with confidence if she had got it up herself; but here she was the victim of an experiment. She felt like a school girl about, for the first time, to appear in public in a long dress, and she was terribly afraid her husband would laugh at her. If he had any such inclination he courteously suppressed it. He said the massive simplicity of this dressing of the hair suited her admirably. Mrs. Lavender said that Paterson was an invaluable woman; and then they went down to the dining-room on the ground floor, where luncheon had been laid.
The man who had opened the door waited on the two strangers; the invaluable Paterson acted as a sort of hench-woman to her mistress, standing by her chair and supplying her wants. She also had the management of a small pair of silver scales, in which pretty nearly everything that Mrs. Lavender took in the way of solid food was carefully and accurately weighed. The conversation was chiefly alimentary, and Sheila listened with a growing wonder to the description of the devices by which the ladies of Mrs. Lavender’s acquaintances were wont to cheat fatigue or win an appetite or preserve their color. When by accident the girl herself was appealed to, she had to confess to an astonishing ignorance of all such resources. She knew nothing of the relative strengths and effects of wines, though she was frankly ready to make any experiment her husband recommended. She knew what camphor was, but had never heard of bismuth. On cross-examination she had to admit that eau-de-cologne did not seem to her likely to be a pleasant liquor before going to a ball. Did she not know the effect on brown hair of washing it in soda-water every night? She was equably confessing her ignorance on all such points when she was startled by a sudden question from Mrs. Lavender. Did she know what she was doing?
She looked at her plate; there was on it a piece of cheese to which she had thoughtlessly helped herself. Somebody had called it Roquefort – that was all she knew.
“You have as much there, child, as would kill a ploughman; and I suppose you would not have had the sense to leave it.”
“Is it poison?” said Sheila, regarding her plate with horror.
“All cheese is. Paterson, my scales.”
She had Sheila’s plate brought to her, and the proper modicum of cheese cut, weighed and sent back.
“Remember, whatever house you are in, never to have more Roquefort than that.”
“It would be simpler to do without,” said Sheila.
“It would be simple enough to do without a great many things,” said Mrs. Lavender, severely. “But the wisdom of living is to enjoy as many different things as possible, so long as you do so in moderation and preserve your health. You are young – you don’t think of such things. You think, because you have good teeth and a clear complexion, you can eat anything. But that won’t last. A time will come. Do you not know what the great Emperor Marcus Antoninus says? – ‘In a little while thou wilt be nobody and nowhere, like Hadrianus and Augustus.’ ”
“Yes,” said Sheila.
She had not enjoyed her luncheon much; she would rather have had a ham sandwich and a glass of spring water on the side of a Highland hill than this varied and fastidious repast accompanied by a good deal of physiology; but it was too bad that, having successfully got through it, she should be threatened with annihilation immediately afterward. It was no sort of consolation to her to know that she would be in the same plight with two emperors.
“Frank, you can go and smoke a cigar in the conservatory if you please. Your wife will come up-stairs with me and have a talk.”
Sheila would much rather have gone into the conservatory also, but she obediently followed Mrs. Lavender up-stairs and into the drawing-room. It was rather a melancholy chamber, the curtains shutting out most of the daylight, and leaving you in a semi-darkness that made the place look big and vague and spectral. The little, shrivelled woman, with the hard and staring eyes and silver-gray hair, bade Sheila sit down beside her. She herself sat by a small table, on which there were a tiny pair of scales, a bottle of ammonia, a fan, and a book bound in an old-fashioned binding of scarlet morocco and gold. Sheila wished this old woman would not look at her so. She wished there was a window open or a glint of sunlight coming in somewhere. But she was glad that her husband was enjoying himself in the conservatory, and that for two reasons. One of them was, that she did not like the tone of his talk while he and his aunt had been conversing together about the cosmetics and such matters. Not only did he betray a marvelous acquaintance with such things, but he seemed to take an odd sort of pleasure in exhibiting his knowledge. He talked about the tricks of fashionable women in a mocking way that Sheila did not quite like; and of course she naturally threw the blame on Mrs. Lavender. It was only when this old lady exerted a godless influence over him that her good boy talked in such a fashion. There was nothing of that about him in Lewis, nor yet at home in a certain snug little smoking-room which these two had come to consider the most comfortable corner in the house. Sheila began to hate women who used lip-salve, and silently recorded a vow that never, never, never would she wear anybody’s hair but her own.
