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fruit for her dinner, had tea with Margaret Orde, whose father was now dead and who had come to live in Bloomsbury, and on the Liverpool Street Station platform met Norah, also returning from a day in town.

‘It’s such a dismal extension of one’s life—this station—isn’t it, Norah?’ she said, greeting her young friend.

‘I always rather like it. I always think it’s rather exciting,’ said Norah. ‘It makes the country all the nicer.’

‘But it becomes part of the country in one’s thoughts.’

‘But that’s a very wrong way of looking at it said Norah laughing; and she was right of course.

When they were established in their third-class carriage, their parcels disposed in the rack above them, Monica said: ‘Your uncle is coming to dine to-night with Clive and Hester. I didn’t know that he was settled in until the other day. I met him and saw his house. You have done it all charmingly, Norah, but it looks rather desolate all the same.’

‘It is a desolate place,’ said Norah, ‘and I can’t quite see him there; but it seems to suit him all right, and he’s got an awfully nice oldish couple to