leys humid
and shining from recent rain; her mullioned windows looking out on
high-walled gardens where the over-hanging trees drip and drip in
chastened melancholy. They remember her floating spires piercing the
lowering sodden sky, her grey courts and solemn doorways, her echoing
cloisters; all her incomparable monastic glory soaked through and
through with heavy languorous moisture, and slowly darkening in a misty
twilight.

It is this sobering atmosphere that has brought to birth and has bred
the "Oxford tone;" the remorseless, if somewhat playful handling of
ideas.

Gwendolen Scott was no more aware of the existence of an "Oxford tone,"
bred (as all organic life has been) in the damp, than was the
maidservant who brought her tea in the morning; but she perceived the
damp. She could see through the latticed windows of the breakfast-room
that it rained, rained and rained, and the question was what she should
do to make the time pass till they must start for Chartcote? No letter
had yet come from her mother--and the old letter was still lost.

The best Gwen could hope for was that it had been picked up and thrown
into the paper basket and destroyed.

Meanwhile what should she do? Lady Dashwood was always occupied during
the mornings. Mrs. Dashwood did not seem to be at her disposal. What was
she to do? Should she practise the "Reverie"? No, she didn't want to
"fag" at that. She had asked the housemaid to mend a pair of stockings,
and she found these returned to her room--boggled! How maddening--what
idiots servants were! She found another pair that wanted mending. She
hadn't the courage to ask Louise to mend it. If she tried to mend it
herself she would only make a mess of it--besides she hadn't any lisle
thread or needles.

She would look at her frocks and try and decide what to wear at lunch.
If she couldn't decide she would have to consult Lady Dashwood. Her room
was rather dark. The window looked, not on to the quadrangle, but on to
the street. She took each piece of dress to the window and gazed at it.
The blue coat and skirt wouldn't do. She had worn that often, and the
blouse was not fresh now. That must go back into the wardrobe. The
likely clothes must be spread on the bed, where she could review them.

She ran her hand down a stiff rustling costume of brown silk. It gave
her a pleasurable sensation. It was dark brown and inconspicuous, and
yet "dressy." But would, after all, the blue coat and skirt be