by, isn't it? and you'll
put me in a bus and I'll go home. Now, come along, it's past five and
I'm dying for some tea.'

As Victoria stood, an hour later, just outside the station in which
expires the spirit of Constantine the Great, she could not help feeling
relieved. As she stood there, so self-possessed, seeing so clearly the
busy world, she wondered why she had been given a broken reed to lean
upon. Where had her brother left his virility? Had it been sapped by
years of self-restraint? Had the formidable code of pretence, the daily
affectation of dignity, the perpetual giving of good examples, reduced
him to this shred of humanity, so timid, so resourceless? As she sped
home in the tube into which she had been directed by a policeman, she
vainly turned over the problem.

Fortunately Victoria was young. As she laid her head on the pillow,
conscious of the coming of Sunday, when nothing could be done, visions
of things she could do obsessed her. There were lodgings to find, nice,
clean, cheap lodgings, with a dear old landlady and trees outside the
window, in a pretty old-fashioned house, very very quiet and quite near
all the tubes. She nursed the ideal for a time. Then she thought of
careers. She would read all the advertisements and pick out the nicest
work. Perhaps she could be a housekeeper. Or a secretary. On reflection,
a secretary would be better. It might be so interesting. Fancy being
secretary to a member of Parliament. Or to a famous author.

She too might write.

Her dreams were pleasant.

CHAPTER VI

A WEEK had elapsed and Victoria was beginning to feel the strain. She
looked out from the window into the little street where fine rain fell
gently as if it had decided to do so for ever. It was deserted, save by
a cat who shivered and crouched under the archway of the mews. Sometimes
a horse stirred. Through the open window the hot alcaline smell of the
animals filtered slowly.

Victoria had found her lodgings. They were not quite the ideal, but she
had not seen the ideal and this little den in Portsea Place was not
without its charms. Her room, for the 'rooms' had turned from the plural
into the singular, was comfortable enough. It occupied the front of the
second floor in a small house. It had two windows, from which, by
craning out a little, the trees of Connaught Square could be seen
standing out like black skeletons against a white house. Opposite was
the archway of the mews out of wh