aracter of the old and beautiful place. But new ways and new manners
were creeping in, and the young were sensitively aware of them, like
birds that feel the signs of coming weather.

Alice fell into a brown study. She was thinking about a recent dance
given at a house in the Parks, where some of her particular friends had
been present, and where, on the whole, she had enjoyed herself greatly.
Nothing is ever perfect, and she would have liked it better if Herbert
Pryce's sister had not--past all denying--had more partners and a
greater success than herself, and if Herbert Pryce himself had not
been--just a little--casual and inattentive. But after all they had had
two or three glorious supper dances, and he certainly would have kissed
her hand, while they were sitting out in the garden, if she had not made
haste to put it out of his reach. "You never did anything of the kind
till you were sure he did not mean to kiss it!" said conscience. "I did
not give myself away in the least!"--was vanity's angry reply. "I was
perfectly dignified."

Herbert Pryce was a young fellow and tutor--a mathematical fellow; and
therefore, Alice's father, for whom Greek was the only study worth the
brains of a rational being, could not be got to take the smallest
interest in him. But he was certainly very clever, and it was said he
was going to get a post at Cambridge--or something at the
Treasury--which would enable him to marry. Alice suddenly had a vague
vision of her own wedding; the beautiful central figure--she would
certainly look beautiful in her wedding dress!--bowing so gracefully;
the bridesmaids behind, in her favourite colours, white and pale green;
and the tall man beside her. But Herbert Pryce was not really tall, and
not particularly good-looking, though he had a rather distinguished
hatchet face, with a good forehead. Suppose Herbert and Vernon and all
her other friends, were to give up being "nice" to her as soon as Connie
Bledlow appeared? Suppose she was going to be altogether cut out and put
in the background? Alice had a kind of uneasy foreboding that Herbert
Pryce would think a title "interesting."

Meanwhile Nora, having looked through an essay on "Piers Plowman," which
she was to take to her English Literature tutor on the following day,
went aimlessly upstairs and put her head into Connie's room. The old
house was panelled, and its guest-room, though small and shabby, had yet
absorbed from its oaken walls, and its