rnt that her birthplace was a vaguely
indicated part of northern London; there, it seemed, her mother had
died, a year or so after the birth of her brother Horace. The relatives
of whom she knew were all on her father's side, and lived scattered
about England. When she sought information concerning her mother, Mr.
Lord became evasive and presently silent; she had seen no portrait of
the dead parent. Of late years this obscure point of the family history
had often occupied her thoughts.

Nancy deemed herself a highly educated young woman,--'cultured' was the
word she would have used. Her studies at a day-school which was reputed
'modern' terminated only when she herself chose to withdraw in her
eighteenth year; and since then she had pursued 'courses' of
independent reading, had attended lectures, had thought of preparing for
examinations--only thought of it. Her father never suggested that she
should use these acquirements for the earning of money; little as she
knew of his affairs, it was obviously to be taken for granted that
he could ensure her life-long independence. Satisfactory, this; but
latterly it had become a question with her how the independence was to
be used, and no intelligible aim as yet presented itself to her roving
mind. All she knew was, that she wished to live, and not merely to
vegetate. Now there are so many ways of living, and Nancy felt no
distinct vocation for any one of them.

She was haunted by an uneasy sense of doubtfulness as to her social
position. Mr. Lord followed the calling of a dealer in pianos; a
respectable business, to be sure, but, it appeared, not lucrative enough
to put her above caring how his money was made. She knew that one's
father may be anything whatever, yet suffer no social disability,
provided he reap profit enough from the pursuit. But Stephen Lord,
whilst resorting daily to his warehouse in Camberwell Road--not
a locality that one would care to talk about in 'cultured'
circles--continued, after twenty years, to occupy this small and ugly
dwelling in Grove Lane. Possibly, owing to an imperfect education, he
failed to appreciate his daughter's needs, and saw no reason why she
should not be happy in the old surroundings.

On the other hand, perhaps he cared very little about her.
Undoubtedly his favourite was Horace, and in Horace he had suffered a
disappointment. The boy, in spite of good schooling, had proved unequal
to his father's hope that he would choose some