okes at the chimney-pot hat, jokes he
had read in the Globe 'turnovers' on that subject. But he showed his
gentle breeding by keeping his gloves on all through the Sunday's ride,
and ostentatiously throwing away more than half a cigarette when they
passed a church whose congregation was gathering for afternoon service.
He cautiously avoided literary topics, except by way of compliment,
seeing that she was presently to be writing books.

It was on Jessie's initiative that they attended service in the
old-fashioned gallery of Blandford church. Jessie's conscience, I may
perhaps tell you, was now suffering the severest twinges. She perceived
clearly that things were not working out quite along the lines she had
designed-. She had read her Olive Schreiner and George Egerton, and so
forth, with all the want of perfect comprehension of one who is still
emotionally a girl. She knew the thing to do was to have a flat and
to go to the British Museum and write leading articles for the daily
papers until something better came along. If Bechamel (detestable
person) had kept his promises, instead of behaving with unspeakable
horridness, all would have been well. Now her only hope was that
liberal-minded woman, Miss Mergle, who, a year ago, had sent her out,
highly educated, into the world. Miss Mergle had told her at parting
to live fearlessly and truly, and had further given her a volume of
Emerson's Essays and Motley's "Dutch Republic," to help her through the
rapids of adolescence.

Jessie's feelings for her stepmother's household at Surbiton amounted to
an active detestation. There are no graver or more solemn women in the
world than these clever girls whose scholastic advancement has retarded
their feminine coquetry. In spite of the advanced tone of 'Thomas
Plantagenet's' antimarital novel, Jessie had speedily seen through that
amiable woman's amiable defences. The variety of pose necessitated by
the corps of 'Men' annoyed her to an altogether unreasonable degree. To
return to this life of ridiculous unreality--unconditional capitulation
to 'Conventionality' was an exasperating prospect. Yet what else was
there to do? You will understand, therefore, that at times she was moody
(and Mr. Hoopdriver respectfully silent and attentive) and at times
inclined to eloquent denunciation of the existing order of things. She
was a Socialist, Hoopdriver learnt, and he gave a vague intimation
that he went further, intending, thereby, no les