he moment of the
smash. They dragged her to their place of worship, whatever it might
have been, where the congregation stared at her, and they gave parties
to other beings like themselves at which they exhibited her with ignoble
self-satisfaction. She did not know how to defend herself from their
importunities, insolence and exigencies. She lived amongst them, a
passive victim, quivering in every nerve, as if she were flayed. After
the trial her position became still worse. On the least occasion and
even on no occasions at all she was scolded, or else taunted with her
dependence. The pious girl lectured her on her defects, the romping
girl teased her with contemptuous references to her accomplishments, and
was always trying to pick insensate quarrels with her about some
"fellow" or other. The mother backed up her girls invariably, adding
her own silly, wounding remarks. I must say they were probably not
aware of the ugliness of their conduct. They were nasty amongst
themselves as a matter of course; their disputes were nauseating in
origin, in manner, in the spirit of mean selfishness. These women, too,
seemed to enjoy greatly any sort of row and were always ready to combine
together to make awful scenes to the luckless girl on incredibly flimsy
pretences. Thus Flora on one occasion had been reduced to rage and
despair, had her most secret feelings lacerated, had obtained a view of
the utmost baseness to which common human nature can descend--I won't
say _a propos de bottes_ as the French would excellently put it but
literally _a propos_ of some mislaid cheap lace trimmings for a
nightgown the romping one was making for herself. Yes, that was the
origin of one of the grossest scenes which, in their repetition, must
have had a deplorable effect on the unformed character of the most
pitiful of de Barrel's victims. I have it from Mrs Fyne. The girl
turned up at the Fynes' house at half-past nine on a cold, drizzly
evening. She had walked bareheaded, I believe, just as she ran out of
the house, from somewhere in Poplar to the neighbourhood of Sloane
Square--without stopping, without drawing breath, if only for a sob.

"We were having some people to dinner," said the anxious sister of
Captain Anthony.

She had heard the front door bell and wondered what it might mean. The
parlourmaid managed to whisper to her without attracting attention. The
servants had been frightened by the invasion of that wild girl i