e infinitely prefer to laugh at you."

"Man's eternal reply to woman, admirably paraphrased!" commented Hadria.

Everyone was anxious to know when Algitha intended to go to London.
Nobody doubted for a moment that she would hold to her purpose; as Fred
said, she was so "beastly obstinate."

Algitha had not fixed any time. It would depend on her mother. She
wished to make things as little painful as possible. That it was her
duty to spare her pain altogether by remaining at home, Algitha refused
to admit. She and Hadria had thought out the question from all sides.
The work she was going to do was useful, but she did not justify herself
on that ground. She claimed the right to her life and her liberty, apart
from what she intended to do with either. She owed it to her own
conscience alone to make good use of her liberty. "I don't want to pose
as a philanthropist," she added, "though I honestly do desire to be of
service. I want to spread my wings. And why should I not? Nobody turns
pale when Ernest wants to spread _his_. How do I know what life is like,
or how best to use it, if I remain satisfied with my present ignorance?
How can I even appreciate what I possess, if I have nothing to compare
it with? Of course, the truly nice and womanly thing to do, is to remain
at home, waiting to be married. I have elected to be _un_womanly."

"I wonder how all this will turn out," said Ernest, "whether you won't
regret it some day when it is too late."

"Don't people _always_ regret what they do--some day?" asked Hadria.

"Perhaps so, especially if they do it sooner than other people."

"When are you going to make the announcement at head quarters?" asked
Fred.

There was a pause. The colour had left Algitha's cheeks. She answered at
length with an effort--

"I shall speak to mother to-day."

CHAPTER IV.

Mrs. Fullerton had gone to the study, to consult with her husband on
some matter of domestic importance. It was a long, low-pitched room,
situated in the part of the house that stood at right angles to the
central block, with long, narrow windows looking on to a rough orchard.
A few old portraits, very yellow and somewhat grotesque, hung on the
walls; a wood fire burnt on the hob-grate, and beside it stood a vast
arm chair, considerably worn, with depressions shewing where its owner
had been leaning his head, day after day, when he smoked his pipe, or
took his after-dinner nap. The bookshelves were stocked with