Patricia Brent, Spinster

es nowhere, and yet she can't be more than tw

lity in the voice; "it's something else." The speaker snapp

enquired th

replied the other voice darkly, "the French call

. I am sure she would be much happier if she had a

ised herself as the object of the speakers' comments. She could not laugh at the words, becaus

indignantly, "and I was onl

kers as Miss Elizabeth Wang

. This ecclesiastical distinction seemed to give her the right of leadership at the Galvin House Residential

d worn it threadbare, and Miss Wangle had got to know of it. The result was the sudden departure of the wit. Miss Wangle had intimated to Mrs

eoccupations. She regularly read The Morning Post, which she bought, and The Times, which she borr

t she wrapped her venom in Christian charity, th

ich read: "Zeppelin commanders are requested to confine their attentions to rooms 8 and 18." Rooms 8 and 18 were those occupied by Miss Wangle and Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe. There had been a great fuss about this harmless and rather feeble joke;

the lounge, she overheard the amiable remarks concerning herself. She passed quietly into the dining-room

e another guest coming," she would say, "a most interesting man," or "a very cultured woman," as the case might be. When the man arrived without his interest,

ted by a progressive-minded guest, had been once and for all discouraged by Miss Wang

dear, if people can't say what they have to say at a large table

ight, would you announce the fact to the whole table?" Patric

auburn wig, which failed to convince anyone, and ser

poured vinegar on oily waters, Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe "dripped with the oil of forbearance." Mr. Cordal ate noisily, Miss Sikku

ought to look, and never failed to show a befitting reverence for Miss Wangle's ecclesiasti

rst to laugh at his jokes in order "to encourage the poor little man," as she expressed it; "for a man who is

and on to Mr. Cordal, lantern-jawed and ravenous. "Were they not all lonely-the left of God?" Patricia asked herself; and

iating they appeared. Her day had been particularly trying and she was tired. She was in a mood to see a cyclone in

forks and spoons, the tapering knives, victims of much cleaning, with their yellow handles, the salt-cellars, the mustard, browning

rticular napkin. Did they ever get mixed? Patricia shuddered at the thought. At the end of the week, a "serviette" had become a sort of gastronomic diary. By Saturday evening (new "serviettes" were s

His own image. They seemed so petty, so ungodlike. The way they regarded their food, as it was handed to them, suggested that they were for ever engaged in a

lon

. It brought her back to earth and Galvin House. "Lonely," that was at the root of her depression. She was an object of pity among

l-well, there were the park and tubes and things where gallant youth approached fair maiden. No, she was just a girl who co

nd Cordals in plenty. There were the "Haven't-we-met-before?" kind too, the hunters who seemed cheerfully to get out at th

ct. She looked across at Miss Sikkum, whose short skirts and floppy hats had involved her in many unconventiona

uld have seen the danger; but she was by nature impulsive, and t

ge. Turning to Mrs. Craske-Morton she remarked casually, "

to be in to dinner. "It saves the servants laying an extra cover," she would expl

she could not have attracted to herself more attention than by her

otte, and spent the rest of the evening in endeavouring to remove the stain from a pale blue sati

shall quite miss you, Miss Brent.

or Patricia's response w

replied no

en tones, and wagging an admonitory finger at

wild oats," a

She would give them something to talk about

beration. "No, I'm not going to a revue, a music-hall, or to sow my wild oats. As a matter of fact,

pince-nez on the edge of her plate and broke the right-hand glass. Mr. Cordal, a heavy man who seldom spoke, but enjo

?" stuttered

s. Mosscrop-Smythe, "you never

quired Patrici

a ring," interposed

rvitude," remarked P

insinuated Miss Sikkum wit

thout a ring," r

gle's ja

s are--"

ers in London, Miss Wangle, and you'll soon want to go back to the English boot

orton coughed

s Brent," sh

or she foresaw a storm threatening, Mrs. Craske-Morton's "Reall

d marriage in this country as a success? It's all because marriages are m

ange and unclean upon which her eyes had never hitherto lighted. In the eyes of little Mrs. Hamilton, a delightfully Fr

fiancé in

sperately. She had long si

is name," gigg

" said

number 99?" enq

said Patricia, now thor

, then," this from M

cond lieutenant?" enqu

onded Patrici

n?" was the

Loamsh

e, who had now regained the power of

r," said Patricia, "I neve

in which your fiancé is?" There was incr

"I suppose it's very horrid of me; but I'

Miss Wangle icily. "I remember

. Mosscrop-Smythe, for the first time in the memory of the oldest gu

tricia, "we shall just dine quie

ythe and Miss Wangle. Why she had fixed upon the

tucker are in proper condition to be worn before my fiancé. I'll tell him

an unknown major in the British Army. You're going to dine with him to-morrow night, and heaven knows what will be the result of it all. A single lie leads to so many. Oh, Patricia, Patricia!" she nodded her head admonishingly at the re

e, and the result was that people saw only the artificiality. She had been brought up in the school of "men are beasts," and she took no trouble to disguise her indifference to them. With wo

s previously, on the death of her father, a lawyer in a small country town, she had come to London and obtained a post as secretary to a blossoming politician. There she had made herself invalu

at night; "it's a long way off and perhaps something will ha