private by that pale atmosphere, the trees, the next field already a mere outline; things unveiling only in small portions under your feet, close to your eyes; the beautiful reddening hedgerows, the splendid lawns and tidy houses of Twickenham, the great old silver groves of willows on the islands, the losestrife and willow herb along the water, with the skiff moored and the fisherman seated among it. Then the river itself-its shorter reaches (only a brilliant mirror among mist remaining after a hundred yards) covered with craft: people sailing, punting, canoeing. People doubtless (at this season) only of the superior counterjumping sort, but with that impeccable look which democratic England, when at its games (vide the village cricket ground), somehow borrows from Eton. then, as usual, opposite Twickenham Ferry, I turned up under the lime avenues of Ham House; its flower-garden vivid in the pale air-its ragged pines clearly and beautifully defined on the white sunny sky.

And

caught up, diffused in yellow vagueness, by the foggy air-the drags and omnibuses, the hurrying crowds.

Then, among the big green plane-trees of the Old World squares of Bloomsbury, the old houses-immense and rambling (with a ghost on the back stairs!) -evidently once of some person of quality of the time of Queen Anne, from whom the square takes its name; filled with pictures and photographs and blackboards, and on this evening with an audience of shabby people with rumpled, pathetic, eager faces; bent on a future which, alas, will never be open to them. I feel in England, these are the people I would live with; these and those few, as much out of the running as they, as far from all successful competition, who belong to the Past, and know nothing of the sordidness of the present: privileged persons, whom privilege has withdrawn from the race of life, and who have lived as independent, and in a way as genuinely and humbly as these.

A CLUB IN BLOOMSBURY

I am so glad that dear Miss F., on that one available evening in London, should have taken me (for her lecture at her working men and women's college) to Bloomsbury and to the things I once believed in and cared for: the drive through the brilliant slummy streets near Euston and Tottenham Court Road, the flare of overloaded barrows, public-houses, and crammed shops, overflowing on to the curb -all multiplied by the wet pavement, and

THE STATION

Last English impression: the drive to Liverpool Street Station; the magnificence of shops and lights caught up by misty, dirty, wet pavements; the endlessness thereof--and the crowds of people streaming along. The colossal shed of the station was filled with the smoke of trains, the blue mist of electric lights, unlimited, without horizon. Large enough to hold, you would think, pieces of the foreign world, as well as the trains and ships going to and fro.

XL

FTER the Princess Estradina's departure, the days at Saint Désert succeeded each other indistinguishably; and more and more, as they passed, Undine felt herself drawn into the slow strong current already fed by so many tributary lives. Some spell she could not have named seemed to emanate from the old house which had so long been the custodian of an unbroken tradition: things had happened there in the same way for so many generations that to try to alter them seemed as vain as to contend with the elements.

Winter came and went, and once more the calendar marked the first days of spring; but though the horse-chestnuts of the Champs Elysées were budding snow still lingered in the grass drives of Saint Désert and along the ridges of the hills beyond the park. Sometimes, as Undine looked out of the windows of the Boucher gallery, she felt as if her eyes had never rested on any other scene. Even her occasional brief trips to Paris left no lasting trace: the life of the vivid streets faded to a shadow as soon as the black and white horizon of Saint Désert closed in on her again.

Though the afternoons were still cold she had lately taken to sitting in the gallery. The smiling scenes on its walls and the tall screens which broke its length made it more habitable than the drawingrooms beyond; but her chief reason for preferring it was the satisfaction she found in having fires lit in both the monumental chimneys that faced each other down its long perspective. This satisfaction had its source in the old Marquise's disapproval. Never before in the history of Saint Désert had the consumption of fire-wood exceeded a certain carefully

calculated measure; but since Undine had been in authority this allowance had been doubled. If any one had told her, a year earlier, that one of the chief distractions of her new life would be to invent ways of annoying her mother-in-law, she would have laughed at the idea of wasting her time on such trifles. But she found herself with a great deal of time to waste, and with a fierce desire to spend it in upsetting the immemorial customs of Saint Désert. Her husband had mastered her in essentials, but she had discovered innumerable small ways of irritating and hurting him, and one-and not the least effectual-was to do anything that went counter to his mother's prejudices. It was not that he always shared her views, or was a particularly subservient son; but it seemed to be one of his fundamental principles that a man should respect his mother's wishes, and see to it that his household respected them. All Frenchmen of his class appeared to share this view, and to regard it as beyond discussion: it was based on something so much more immutable than personal feeling that one might even hate one's mother and yet insist that her ideas as to the con sumption of fire-wood should be regarded.

The old Marquise, during the cold weather, always sat in her bedroom; and there, between the tapestried four-poster and the fireplace, the family grouped itself around the ground-glass of her single carcel lamp. In the evening, if there were visitors, a fire was lit in the library; otherwise the family again sat about the Marquise's lamp till the footman came in at ten with tisane and biscuits de Reims; after which every one bade the dowager good night and scattered down the corridors to chill distances marked by tapers floating in cups of oil.

Since Undine's coming the library fire had never been allowed to go out; and of late, after experimenting with the two

drawing-rooms and the so-called "study" where Raymond kept his guns and saw the bailiff, she had selected the gallery as the most suitable place for the new and unfamiliar ceremony of afternoon tea. Afternoon refreshments had never before been served at Saint Désert except when company was expected; when they had invariably consisted in a decanter of sweet port and a plate of small dry cakes-the kind that kept. That the complicated rites of the tea-urn, with its offering-up of perishable delicacies, should be enacted for the sole enjoyment of the family, was a thing so unheard of that for a while Undine found sufficient amusement in elaborating the ceremonial, and in making the ancestral plate groan under more varied viands; and when this palled she devised the plan of performing the office in the gallery and lighting sacrificial fires in both chimneys.

She had said to Raymond, at first: "It's ridiculous that your mother should sit in her bedroom all day. She says she does it to save fires; but if we have a fire downstairs why can't she let hers go out, and come down? I don't see why I should spend my life in your mother's bedroom."

Raymond made no answer, and the Marquise did, in fact, let her fire go out. But she did not come down-she simply continued to sit upstairs without a fire.

At first this also amused Undine; then the tacit criticism implied began to irritate her. She hoped Raymond would speak of his mother's attitude: she had her answer ready if he did! But he made no comment, he took no notice; her impulses of retaliation spent themselves against the blank surface of his indifference. He was as amiable, as considerate as ever; as ready, within reason, to accede to her wishes and gratify her whims. Once or twice, when she suggested running up to Paris to take Paul to the dentist, or to look for a servant, he agreed to the necessity and went up with her. But instead of going to an hotel they went to their apartment, where carpets were up and curtains down, and a care-taker prepared primitive food at uncertain hours; and Undine's first glimpse of Hubert's illuminated windows deepened her rancour and her sense of helplessness.

As Madame de Trézac had predicted, Raymond's vigilance gradually relaxed, and during their excursions to the capital Undine came and went as she pleased. But their visits were too short to permit of her falling in with the social pace, and when she showed herself among her friends she felt countrified and out-ofplace, as if even her clothes had come from Saint Désert. Nevertheless her dresses were more than ever her chief preoccupation: in Paris she spent hours at the dress-maker's, and in the country the arrival of a box of new gowns was the chief event of the vacant days. But there was more bitterness than joy in the unpacking, and the dresses hung in her wardrobe like so many unfulfilled promises of pleasure, reminding her of the days at the Stentorian when she had reviewed other finery with the same cheated eyes. In spite of this, she multiplied her orders, writing up to the dress-makers for patterns, and to the milliners for boxes of hats which she tried on, and kept for days, without being able to make a choice. Now and then she. even sent her maid up to Paris to bring back great assortments of veils, gloves, flowers and laces; and after periods of painful indecision she ended by keeping the greater number, lest those she sent back should turn out to be the ones that were worn in Paris. She knew she was spending too much money, and she had lost her youthful faith in providential solutions; but she had always had the habit of going out to buy something when she was bored, and never had she been in greater need of such solace.

The dulness of her life seemed to have passed into her blood: her complexion was less animated, her hair less shining. The change in her looks alarmed her, and she scanned the fashion-papers for new scents and powders, and experimented in facial bandaging, electric massage and other processes of renovation. Odd atavisms woke in her, and she began to pore over patent medicine advertisements, to send stamped envelopes to beauty doctors and professors of physical development, and to brood on the advantage of consulting faith-healers, mind-readers and their kindred adepts. She even wrote to her mother for the receipts of some of her grandfather's forgotten nostrums, and