s life,"
murmured Agatha; "I don't."

Barbara's eyes grew bright; and in a hard voice she answered:

"The world is not your nursery, Angel!"

Agatha closed her lips very tightly, as who should imply: "Then it ought
to be!" But she only answered:

"I don't think you know that I saw you just now in Gustard's."

Barbara eyed her for a moment in amazement, and began to laugh.

"I see," she said; "monstrous depravity--poor old Gustard's!" And still
laughing that dangerous laugh, she turned on her heel and went out.

At dinner and afterwards that evening she was very silent, having on
her face the same look that she wore out hunting, especially when in
difficulties of any kind, or if advised to 'take a pull.' When she got
away to her own room she had a longing to relieve herself by some kind
of action that would hurt someone, if only herself. To go to bed and
toss about in a fever--for she knew herself in these thwarted moods--was
of no use! For a moment she thought of going out. That would be fun, and
hurt them, too; but it was difficult. She did not want to be seen, and
have the humiliation of an open row. Then there came into her head the
memory of the roof of the tower, where she had once been as a little
girl. She would be in the air there, she would be able to breathe, to
get rid of this feverishness. With the unhappy pleasure of a spoiled
child taking its revenge, she took care to leave her bedroom door open,
so that her maid would wonder where she was, and perhaps be anxious, and
make them anxious. Slipping through the moonlit picture gallery on
to the landing, outside her father's sanctum, whence rose the stone
staircase leading to the roof, she began to mount. She was breathless
when, after that unending flight of stairs she emerged on to the roof at
the extreme northern end of the big house, where, below her, was a sheer
drop of a hundred feet. At first she stood, a little giddy, grasping the
rail that ran round that garden of lead, still absorbed in her brooding,
rebellious thoughts. Gradually she lost consciousness of everything save
the scene before her. High above all neighbouring houses, she was almost
appalled by the majesty of what she saw. This night-clothed city, so
remote and dark, so white-gleaming and alive, on whose purple hills and
valleys grew such myriad golden flowers of light, from whose heart came
this deep incessant murmur--could it possibly be the same city through
which she had been wal