verything was
made smooth and easy before the semblance of manhood. What a joy to
be rid of skirts and petticoats! To be able to run after and leap on
to an omnibus, to wear the same hat day after day just stuck on top
of her curly head. Not, perhaps, to change her clothes, between her
uprising and her retirement to bed, unless she were going out to
dine. No simpering. No need to ask favours. No compliments. It is
true she felt awkward in the presence of women, not quite the same,
even with Honoria. But with men. What a difference! She felt she had
never really known men before. At first the frank speech, the
expletives, the smoking-room stories made her a little uncomfortable
and occasionally called forth an irrepressible blush. But this was
not to her disadvantage. It made her seem younger, and created a
good impression on her tutors and acquaintances. "A nice modest boy,
fresh from the country--pity to lead him astray--won't preserve his
innocence long--" was the vaguely defined impression, contact with
her--him, I mean--made on most decent male minds. Many a lad comes
up from the country to commence his career in London who knew far
less than the unfortunate Vivie had been compelled to know of the
shady side of life; who is compelled to lead a somewhat retired life
by straitness of means; whose determination towards probity and
regularity of life is respected by the men of law among whom he
finds himself.

But David having decided--he did not quite know why--to pursue his
acquaintance with Professor Rossiter; having written to ask if he
might do so (as a matter of fact he frequently saw Rossiter walking
across the gardens of New Square to go to the museum of the Royal
College of Surgeons: he recollected him immediately but Rossiter did
not reciprocate, being absent-minded); and having received a card
from "Linda Rossiter" to say they would be at home throughout the
winter on Thursdays, between 4 and 6: went on one of those Thursdays
and made definite progress with the great friendship of his life.

CHAPTER VI

THE ROSSITERS

The Rossiters' house in Park Crescent was at the northern end of
Portland Place, and its high-walled garden--the stables that were
afterwards to become a garage--and Michael Rossiter's long,
glass-roofed studio-laboratory--abutted on one of those quiet,
deadly-respectable streets at the back that are called after Devon
or Dorset place names.

The house is now a good deal altered