As Cassandra Otway went about London provided with shillings that
opened turnstiles, or more often with large white cards that disregarded
turnstiles, the city seemed to her the most lavish and hospitable
of hosts. After visiting the National Gallery, or Hertford House, or
hearing Brahms or Beethoven at the Bechstein Hall, she would come back
to find a new person awaiting her, in whose soul were imbedded some
grains of the invaluable substance which she still called reality, and
still believed that she could find. The Hilberys, as the saying is,
"knew every one," and that arrogant claim was certainly upheld by the
number of houses which, within a certain area, lit their lamps at night,
opened their doors after 3 p. m., and admitted the Hilberys to their
dining-rooms, say, once a month. An indefinable freedom and authority of
manner, shared by most of the people who lived in these houses, seemed
to indicate that whether it was a question of art, music, or government,
they were well within the gates, and could smile indulgently at the
vast mass of humanity which is forced to wait and struggle, and pay for
entrance with common coin at the door. The gates opened instantly to
admit Cassandra. She was naturally critical of what went on inside, and
inclined to quote what Henry would have said; but she often succeeded in
contradicting Henry, in his absence, and invariably paid her partner
at dinner, or the kind old lady who remembered her grandmother, the
compliment of believing that there was meaning in what they said. For
the sake of the light in her eager eyes, much crudity of expression and
some untidiness of person were forgiven her. It was generally felt that,
given a year or two of experience, introduced to good dressmakers,
and preserved from bad influences, she would be an acquisition. Those
elderly ladies, who sit on the edge of ballrooms sampling the stuff
of humanity between finger and thumb and breathing so evenly that the
necklaces, which rise and fall upon their breasts, seem to represent
some elemental force, such as the waves upon the ocean of humanity,
concluded, a little smilingly, that she would do. They meant that
she would in all probability marry some young man whose mother they
respected.

William Rodney was fertile in suggestions. He knew of little galleries,
and select concerts, and private performances, and somehow made time to
meet Katharine and Cassandra, and to give them tea or dinner or supper
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