nality is certainly daring, and their realism startling; but there
exists a considerable body of opinion, as you know, that strongly objects
to your books. It may be reactionary opinion, bigoted opinion, ignorant
opinion, what you like, but it exists, and it is not afraid to employ the
word "immoral."'

'What, then?'

'I speak as one old enough to be your mother, and I speak after all to a
motherless young girl who happens to have genius with, perhaps, some of
the disadvantages of genius, when I urge you so to arrange your personal
life that this body of quite respectable adverse opinion shall not find
in it a handle to use against the fair fame of our calling.'

'Mrs. Sardis!' I cried. 'What do you mean?'

I felt my nostrils dilate in anger as I gazed, astounded, at this
incarnation of mediocrity who had dared to affront me on my own hearth;
and by virtue of my youth and my beauty, and all the homage I had
received, and the clear sincerity of my vision of life, I despised and
detested the mother of a family who had never taken one step beyond the
conventions in which she was born. Had she not even the wit to perceive
that I was accustomed to be addressed as queens are addressed?... Then,
as suddenly as it had flamed, my anger cooled, for I could see the
painful earnestness in her face. And Mrs. Sardis and I--what were we but
two groups of vital instincts, groping our respective ways out of one
mystery into another? Had we made ourselves? Had we chosen our
characters? Mrs. Sardis was fulfilling herself, as I was. She was a
natural force, as I was. As well be angry with a hurricane, or the heat
of the sun.

'What do you mean?' I repeated quietly. 'Tell me exactly what you mean.'

I thought she was aiming at the company which I sometimes kept, or the
freedom of my diversions on the English Sabbath. I thought what trifles
were these compared to the dilemma in which, possibly within a few hours,
I should find myself.

'To put it in as few words as possible,' said she, 'I mean your relations
with a married man. Forgive my bluntness, dear girl.'

'My--'

Then my secret was not my secret! We were chattered about, he and I. We
had not hidden our feeling, our passions. And I had been imagining myself
a woman of the world equal to sustaining a difficult part in the masque
of existence. With an abandoned gesture I hid my face in my hands for a
moment, and then I dropped my hands, and leaned forward and looked
steadily a