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murmur of voices in the kitchen where the maids no doubt were in surmising conference. Her eye was drawn, as she stood there, to a suitcase standing near the door, a strong leather suitcase marked ‘H. W.’ Hester was packed and ready for the Bolsheviks. The drawing-room door was ajar and she looked in. In the further end, at the window that gave on the garden behind the house, Hester sat writing with her back to her. Her slight figure was framed from on high by the opulent folds of Mrs. Jessup’s batik curtains with which it was in strange contrast. Monica saw now, clearly, that Hester had never harmonized with Mrs. Jessup’s curtains; as little as with her own chintz and china. She was a creature of either the open heath or the underground railway. She belonged to no æsthetic background. She wore, this morning, her dark blue skirt and her red jumper and her hair was neatly brushed to a point on the nape of her neck. Beside her on the ground stood an open attaché case and as she dropped a folded paper into it and drew a fresh sheet towards her she looked extremely composed and efficient. Monica, however, now saw the statue in the round and knew what lay on the other side of Hester’s composure. She was occupied in cutting away her roots; but it would not