se,
it was very wicked of her to let him continue under a misapprehension,
it was so difficult to clear the matter up, as, the more she protested,
the more confused she became, the more he was bound to think that there
was something in it.

Poor Miss Wilcox, battling with her conscience when Mr. Simpson's
passion was an invention of Vera's to whom old maids and curates were
simply stage properties. Vera with her long legs and her laughing eyes
and her happy, unimaginative youth--how was she to know that the
Simpsons of life stand for romance and mystery and longings unachieved?
To some people the impossible is impossible. One fine day they wake up
in the morning knowing that they will never hold the moon in their hands
and with the certainty, perfect peace descends on them.

Miss Wilcox was not like that. She couldn't settle down to decorating
the church and organising village entertainments. She woke up every
morning sure that something was going to happen and went to bed every
night dissatisfied in proportion to her confidence.

And then, quite close together, two things did happen. Miss Wilcox was
left a small fortune and Vera became engaged to be married.

The wedding, of course, was a great dramatic event. The preparations
engulfed everybody. What flowers should the triumphal arches be made of
and were the fair or the dark bridesmaids to be considered in the
bridesmaids' dresses? Miss Wilcox gave her advice freely and tied cards
on to presents but she felt unaccountably depressed. This, of course,
was because dear little Vera whom she had known since a child, whom she
had loved as a child, was leaving them and plunging into this strange,
unknown adventure. What an uncertain thing marriage, what an elusive
thing happiness! At nights she would dream of white satin figures
shrouded in white tulle veils, of shy, passionate bridegrooms and shy,
radiant brides. Sometimes she would see Vera's face and sometimes her
own and often in the morning, she would find her pillow wet. "It will be
you and Simpson next," Sir Harry teased her. But somehow the remark no
longer pleased her and she no longer blushed.

And then, one day she couldn't bear it any more. Without saying a word
to any one she went to London. A thick orange fog greeted her, a
wonderful, mysterious fog, creating immense prehistoric silhouettes, a
fog which freed you from old accustomed sights and sounds so that your
individuality seemed at last to be release