t way, we call them bad. Nothing could be
simpler."

"I believe," said Hadria, "that the women who are called good have much
to do with the making of those that are called bad. The two kinds are
substance and shadow. We shall never get out of the difficulty till they
frankly shake hands, and admit that they are all playing the same game."

"Oh, they will never do that," exclaimed Valeria, laughing and shaking
her head. "What madness!"

"Why not? The thing is so obvious. They are like the two sides of a
piece of embroidery: one all smooth and fair, the other rough and ugly,
showing the tag ends and the fastenings. But since the embroidery is
insisted on, I can't see that it is of any moral consequence on which
side of the canvas one happens to be."

"It is chiefly a matter of luck," said the Professor.

A long shadow fell across Hadria as she spoke, blotting out the little
flicker of the sunlight that shone through the stirring leaves.
Professor Theobald had crept up softly across the lawn, and as the
chairs were turned towards the flower-borders, he had approached
unobserved.

Hadria gave so violent a start when she heard his voice, that Professor
Fortescue looked at her anxiously. He thought her nerves must be
seriously out of order. The feverish manner of her greeting to the
new-comer, confirmed his fear. Professor Theobald apologized for
intruding. He had given up his intention of going up to town to-day. He
meant to put it off till next week. He could not miss Fortescue's visit.
One could not tell when one might see him again.

And Professor Theobald led the conversation airily on; talking fluently,
and at times brilliantly, but always with that indefinable touch of
something ignoble, something coarse, that now filled Hadria with
unspeakable dismay. She was terrified lest the other two should go, and
he should remain. And yet she ought to speak frankly to him. His
conversation was full of little under-meanings, intended for her only to
understand; his look, his manner to her made her actually hate him. Yet
she felt the utter inconsequence and injustice of her attitude. _He_
had not changed. There was nothing new in him. The change was in
herself. Professor Fortescue had awakened her. But, of course, he was
one in ten thousand. It was not fair to make the comparison by which
Professor Theobald suffered so pitiably. At that moment, as if Fate had
intended to prove to her how badly Professor Theobald really sto