their very worst and most depressing: one had hardly the energy to
lift a finger in September. Mrs. Simpson looked back upon the discomfort
she had endured in Bengal at this time of year with a kind of regret
that it was irretrievably over; she lingered upon a severe illness which
had been part of the experience. She seemed to think that with a little
judicious management she might have spent more time in that climate and
less in England. There was in her tone a suggestion of gentle envy of
Laura, going forth to these dismal conditions with her young life in her
hands, all tricked out for the sacrifice, which left Duff Lindsay and
his white and gold drawing-room entirely out of consideration. Any
sacrifice to Mrs. Simpson was alluring; she would be killed all day
long, in a manner, for its own sake.

The victim had taken her passage early in October, and during the first
week of that month Plymouth gathered itself into meetings to bid her
farewell. A curiously sacred character had fastened itself upon her. It
was not in the least realised that she was going out to be married to an
altogether secular young broker moving in fashionable circles in one of
the gayest cities in the world. One or two reverend persons, in the
course of commending their young sister to the protection of the
Almighty in her approaching separation from the dear friends who
surrounded her in Plymouth, made references implying that her labours
would continue to the glory of God, taking it as a matter of course.
Miss Filbert was by this time very much impregnated with the idea that
they would, she did not know precisely how, but that would open itself
out. Duff had long been assimilated as part of the programme. All that
money and humility could contribute should be forthcoming from him; she
had a familiar dream of him as her standard-bearer, undistinguished but
for ever safe.

Yet it was with qualified approval that Mrs. Simpson, amid the confusion
of the _Coromandel's_ preparations for departure at London Docks, heard
the familiar strains of the Salvation Army rising aft. Laura immediately
cried, "I shall have friends among the passengers," and Mrs. Simpson so
fair forgot herself as to say, "Yes, if they are nice." The ladies were
sitting on deck beside the pile of Laura's very superior cabin luggage.
Mrs. Simpson glanced at it as if it offered a kind of corroboration of
the necessity of their being nice. "There are always a few delightful
Christi