as an excellent example. She was
incapable of "conducting a conversation," she never read a book, but
simply because her eyes sparkled and somehow or other, she always
reminded you of a Shepperson drawing, she was invariably surrounded by a
host of adorers. She was indifferent to the axioms, "boys will be boys"
and "gentlemen are different." In her philosophy, "girls would be boys"
and the difference between the sexes was simply one of what you might
and might not do.

"A positive savage," Miss Wilcox would explain and then, "You should be
more womanly, dear; men like a womanly woman." And Vera's eyes would
sparkle maliciously, for men undoubtedly did like Vera.

I do not know at what moment in life, if ever, we realise that we are
neither George Sands nor Juliets. Of course, if we are not beautiful, we
recognise early that beauty is nothing. What are features? The only
thing that matters is to have charm and expression. Then comes that
horrible gnawing doubt of our own magnetism. Is it possible that, though
we are not lovely, we are not irresistible either? That we will have to
go through life belonging neither to the triumphantly beautiful nor to
the triumphantly ugly? Miss Wilcox knew that she was not exactly
clever. But after all, what is prettiness and "men don't like clever
women." So she consoled herself with the thought that though her manner
"permitted no liberties," the warm tenderness of her true nature must be
apparent to the really discerning.

Poor Miss Wilcox! She had tried brightness and common-sense, Milton and
lawn-tennis, the arch and the aloof. She would have liked to have been
seductive and a little wicked, but she had found it easier to be
dignified and very good. Easier but no more satisfactory. Evidently
charm was a strange, mysterious thing, for which there was no recipe. A
dangerous force governing many things and subject to no law.

Every one was kind to Miss Wilcox. Lady Mary (Vera's mother) was always
asking her to picnics and lawn-tennis, parties and festivities of all
sorts. On these occasions, Sir Harry invariably chaffed her about the
curate, little knowing that his foolish jokes were a source of exquisite
and almost guilty pleasure to her. Was it, she wondered, altogether fair
to let him think that Mr. Simpson loved her? But she did enjoy it so
much, the nervous agonising sense of expectancy and then the sudden hot
blush. "Their little secret," Sir Harry called it and though, of cour