mained unconvinced; but she extracted a
promise from our fair barbarian never to shoot or jab a knife into
anyone before consulting her as to the propriety of so doing.

But for this and for one or two other trivial lapses from grace, Liosha
led a pretty equable existence at the boarding-house. If she now and
then scandalised the inmates by her unconventional habits and free
expressions of opinion, she compensated by affording them a chronic
topic of conversation. A large though somewhat scornful generosity also
established her in their esteem. She would lend or give anything she
possessed. When one of the forlorn and woollen-shawled old maids fell
ill, she sat up of nights with her, and in spite of her ignorance of
nursing, which was as vast as that of a rhinoceros, magnetised the
fragile lady into well-being. I think she was fairly happy. If London
had been situated amid gorges and crags and ravines and granite cliffs
she would have been completely so. She yearned for mountains. Mrs.
Considine to satisfy this nostalgia took her for a week's trip to the
English Lakes. She returned railing at Scawfell and Skiddaw for
unimportant undulations, and declaring her preference for London. So in
London she remained.

In these early stages of our acquaintance with Liosha, she counted in
our lives for little more than a freakish interest. Even in the crises
of her naughtiness anxiety as to her welfare did not rob us of our
night's sleep. She existed for us rather as a toy personality whose
quaint vagaries afforded us constant amusement than as an intense human
soul. The working out of her destiny did not come within the sphere of
our emotional sympathies like that of Adrian and Doria. The latter were
of our own kind and class, bound to us not only by the common traditions
of centuries, but by ties of many years' affection. It is only natural
that we should have watched them more closely and involved ourselves
more intimately in their scheme of things.

The first fine rapture of house-pride having grown calm, the Bolderos
settled down to the serene beatitude of the Higher Life tempered by the
amenities of commonplace existence. When Adrian worked, Doria read Dante
and attended performances of the Intellectual Drama; when Adrian
relaxed, she cooked dainties in a chafing dish and accompanied him to
Musical Comedy. They entertained in a gracious modest way, and went out
into cultivated society. The Art of Life, they declared, was t