an to review, for the first time, her visit to the
university. All had been so strange and new and delightful to her that
she had never stopped for retrospect. Life in the new and enchanting
place had been in the moving present. The mind had been receptive only,
gathering data for later thought. During her visit she had had no one to
direct her thought, and so it had been all personal, with the freedom of
individuality at large. Of course her mother's friend, skilled in the
mind-workings of average girls, and able to pick her way through
intellectual and moral quagmires, had taken good care to point out to her
certain intellectual movements and certain moral lessons; just as she had
in their various walks and drives pointed out matters of
interest--architectural beauties and spots of historic import. And she
had taken in, loyally accepted, and thoroughly assimilated all that she
had been told. But there were other lessons which were for her young
eyes; facts which the older eyes had ceased to notice, if they had ever
noticed them at all. The self-content, the sex-content in the endless
tide of young men that thronged the streets and quads and parks; the all-
sufficing nature of sport or study, to whichever their inclinations
tended. The small part which womankind seemed to have in their lives.
Stephen had had, as we know, a peculiar training; whatever her instincts
were, her habits were largely boy habits. Here she was amongst boys, a
glorious tide of them; it made now and again her heart beat to look at
them. And yet amongst them all she was only an outsider. She could not
do anything better than any of them. Of course, each time she went out,
she became conscious of admiring glances; she could not be woman without
such consciousness. But it was as a girl that men looked at her, not as
an equal. As well as personal experience and the lessons of eyes and
ears and intelligence, there were other things to classify and adjust;
things which were entirely from the outside of her own life. The
fragments of common-room gossip, which it had been her fortune to hear
accidentally now and again. The half confidences of scandals, borne on
whispered breaths. The whole confidences of dormitory and study which
she had been privileged to share. All were parts of the new and strange
world, the great world which had swum into her ken.

As she sat now in the train, with some formulation of memory already
accomplished in