The New Magdalen

She rose abruptly from the table. The effort of her life was to shake

herself free of the remembrances which haunted her perpetually as they

were haunting her now. Her memory was her worst enemy; her one refuge

from it was in change of occupation and change of scene.

"May I go into the conservatory, Lady Janet?" she asked.

"Certainly, my dear."

She bent her head to her protectress, looked for a moment with a steady,

compassionate attention at Horace Holmcroft, and, slowly crossing the

room, entered the winter-garden. The eyes of Horace followed her, as

long as she was in view, with a curious contradictory expression

of admiration and disapproval. When she had passed out of sight the

admiration vanished, but the disapproval remained. The face of the young

man contracted into a frown: he sat silent, with his fork in his hand,

playing absently with the fragments on his plate.

"Take some French pie, Horace," said Lady Janet.

"No, thank you."

"Some more chicken, then?"

"No more chicken."

"Will nothing tempt you?"

"I will take some more wine, if you will allow me."

He filled his glass (for the fifth or sixth time) with claret, and

emptied it sullenly at a draught. Lady Janet's bright eyes watched him

with sardonic attention; Lady Janet's ready tongue spoke out as freely

as usual what was passing in her mind at the time.

"The air of Kensington doesn't seem to suit you, my young friend," she

said. "The longer you have been my guest, the oftener you fill your

glass and empty your cigar-case. Those are bad signs in a young man.

When you first came here you arrived invalided by a wound. In your

place, I should not have exposed myself to be shot, with no other

object in view than describing a battle in a newspaper. I suppose tastes

differ. Are you ill? Does your wound still plague you?"

"Not in the least."

"Are you out of spirits?"

Horace Holmcroft dropped his fork, rested his elbows on the table, and

answered: "Awfully."

Even Lady Janet's large toleration had its limits. It embraced every

human offense except a breach of good manners. She snatched up the

nearest weapon of correction at hand--a tablespoon--and rapped her young

friend smartly with it on the arm that was nearest to her.

"My table is not the club table," said the old lady. "Hold up your head.

Don't look at your fork--look at me. I allow nobody to be out of spirits

in My house. I consider it to be a reflection on Me. If our quiet life

here doesn't suit you, say so plainly, and find something else to do.

There is employment to be had, I suppose--if you choose to apply for it?

You needn't smile. I don't want to see your teeth--I want an answer."