's nose at all, I was laughing at his
funny umbrella."

X

Six months stole almost unobserved into a dim land of memories. The war,
which ate up all things, did not spare the almanack; and what should
appear to later generations as the most stirring period in the world's
history, appeared to many of those who lived through it in London as a
dreary blank in their lives, a hiatus, an interval of waiting--a time to
be speedily forgotten when its dull aches were no more and absent dear
ones again worked side by side for simple ends, and the sweeter triumphs
of peace. Some there were whose sorrows drove them like Sarak in quest
of the Waters of Oblivion, but, to all, those days were poppy days,
unreal and meaningless; transitionary, as a bridge between unlike
states.

Flamby made progress at Guilder's, growing more and more familiar with
the technique of her art, but, under the careful guidance of Hammett,
never losing that characteristic nonchalance of style which was the
outstanding charm of her work. So many professors seem to regard their
pupils as misshapen creatures, who must be reduced to a uniform pattern,
but Hammett was not as one of these. He encouraged originality whilst he
suppressed eccentricity, and although, recognising the budding genius in
the girl's work, he lavished particular care upon her artistic
development, he never tried to make love to her, which proved that he
was not only a good painter, but also a sound philosopher. He took her
to lunch once or twice to Regali's, which created a coterie of female
enemies, but Flamby regarded all women in a more charitable manner since
her meeting with Mrs. Chumley, and some of her enemies afterwards became
her friends, for she bore them no malice, but sought them out and did
her utmost to understand them. Her father had taught her to despise the
pettiness of women, but in Mrs. Chumley's sweet sympathy she had found a
new model of conduct. Her later philosophy was a quaint one.

"It isn't fair, Mrs. Chumley," she said one day, sitting on the settee
in her little room, knees drawn up to chin and her arms embracing
them--"it isn't fair to hate a girl for being spiteful. You might as
well hate a cat for killing mice."

"Quite agree, dear. I am glad you think so."

"Women are different from men. They haven't got the same big interests
in life, and they are not meant to have. I am sorry for women who have
to live alone and fight for themselves. But I can't be