I _ought_ to have written to
her.'

'We shall go to her, of course?'

'Oh yes, as she gives us the choice. How delightful! I wonder what she
is doing? She writes cheerfully; I am sure she must be in a good
position. What is the address? Queen's Road, Chelsea. Oh, I'm so glad
it's not very far. We can walk there and back easily.'

For several years they had lost sight of Rhoda Nunn. She left Clevedon
shortly after the Maddens were scattered, and they heard she had become
a teacher. About the date of Monica's apprenticeship at Weston, Miss
Nunn had a chance meeting with Virginia and the younger girl; she was
still teaching, but spoke of her work with extreme discontent, and
hinted at vague projects. Whether she succeeded in releasing herself
the Maddens never heard.

It was a morning of doubtful fairness. Before going to bed last night
they had decided to walk out together this morning and purchase the
present for Monica's birthday, which was next Sunday. But Alice felt
too unwell to leave the house. Virginia should write a reply to Miss
Nunn's letter, and then go to the bookseller's alone.

She set forth at half-past nine. With extreme care she had preserved an
out-of-doors dress into the third summer; it did not look shabby. Her
mantle was in its second year only; the original fawn colour had gone
to an indeterminate grey. Her hat of brown straw was a possession for
ever; it underwent new trimming, at an outlay of a few pence, when that
became unavoidable. Yet Virginia could not have been judged anything
but a lady. She wore her garments as only a lady can (the position and
movement of the arms has much to do with this), and had the step never
to be acquired by a person of vulgar instincts.

A very long walk was before her. She wished to get as far as the Strand
bookshops, not only for the sake of choice, but because this region
pleased her and gave her a sense of holiday. Past Battersea Park, over
Chelsea Bridge, then the weary stretch to Victoria Station, and the
upward labour to Charing Cross. Five miles, at least, measured by
pavement. But Virginia walked quickly; at half-past eleven she was
within sight of her goal.

A presentable copy of Keble's work cost less than she had imagined.
This rejoiced her. But after leaving the shop she had a singular
expression on her face--something more than weariness, something less
than anxiety, something other than calculation. In front of Charing
Cross Station she stop