unds, say six hundred if she
realised everything, would not yield enough to feed a superannuated
governess. She would need quite eight or ten thousand pounds before she
could call herself free and live her dreams.

'I'll earn it,' she said aloud, 'yes, sure enough.'

A little Aberdeen terrier came bounding up to her, licked her hand and
ran away after his master. A friendly omen. Six hundred pounds was a
large sum in a way. She could aspire to a partnership in some business
now. A vision arose before her; Victoria Ferris, milliner. The vision
grew; Victoria Ferris and Co., Limited, wholesalers; then Ferris'
Stores, for clothes and boots and cheese and phonographs, with a branch
of Cook's agency, a Keith Prowse ticket office; Ferris' Stores as an
octopus, with its body in Knightsbridge and a tentacle hovering over
every draper from Richmond to Highgate.

Yes, that was all very well, but what if Victoria Ferris failed? 'No
good,' she thought, 'I can't afford to take risks.' Of course the idea
of seeking employment was absurd. No more ten hours a day for eight bob
a week for her. Besides, no continuous references and a game leg . . .
The situations crowded into and out of Victoria's brain like dissolving
views. She could see herself in the little house, with another man, with
other men, young men, old men; and every one of them was rocked in the
lap of Delilah, who laughingly shore off their golden locks.

'By Jove,' she said aloud, bringing her gloved fist down on her knee,
'I'll do it.'

Of course the old life could not begin again just now. She did not know
a man in London who was worth capturing. She must go down into the
market, stand against the wall as a courtesan of Alexandria and nail a
wreath of roses against the highest bid. The vision she saw was now no
longer the octopus. She saw a street with its pavements wet and
slithering, flares, barrows laden with greens; she could smell frying
fish, rotting vegetables, burning naptha; a hand opened the door of a
bar and, in the glare, she could see two women with vivid hair, tired
eyes, smiling mouths, each one patiently waiting before a little table
and an empty glass. Then she saw once more the courtesan of Alexandria,
dim in the night, not lit up by the sun of sweet Egypt, but clad in
mercerised cotton and rabbit's fur, standing, watching like a shadow
against a shop door in Regent Street.

No, she had not come to that. She belonged to the upper stratum of the