THE COLLECTED WORKS OF GEORGE BERNARD SHAW. GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

me show you your room,” said Lydia, rising. “This is a curious drawingroom,” she added, glancing around. “I only use it occasionally to receive visitors.” She looked about her again with some interest, as if the apartment belonged to some one else, and led the way to a room on the first floor, furnished as a lady’s bedchamber. “If you dislike this,” she said, “or cannot arrange it to suit you, there are others, of which you can have your choice. Come to my boudoir when you are ready.”

      “Where is that?” said Alice, anxiously.

      “It is — You had better ring for some one to show you. I will send you my maid.”

      Alice, even more afraid of the maid than of the mistress, declined hastily. “I am accustomed to attend to myself, Miss Carew,” with proud humility.

      “You will find it more convenient to call me Lydia,” said Miss Carew. “Otherwise you will be supposed to refer to my grandaunt, a very old lady.” She then left the room.

      Alice was fond of thinking that she had a womanly taste and touch in making a room pretty. She was accustomed to survey with pride her mother’s drawingroom, which she had garnished with cheap cretonnes, Japanese paper fans, and knick-knacks in ornamental pottery. She felt now that if she slept once in the bed before her, she could never be content in her mother’s house again. All that she had read and believed of the beauty of cheap and simple ornament, and the vulgarity of costliness, recurred to her as a hypocritical paraphrase of the “sour grapes” of the fox in the fable. She pictured to herself with a shudder the effect of a sixpenny Chinese umbrella in that fireplace, a cretonne valance to that bed, or chintz curtains to those windows. There was in the room a series of mirrors consisting of a great glass in which she could see herself at full length, another framed in the carved oaken dressing-table, and smaller ones of various shapes fixed to jointed arms that turned every way. To use them for the first time was like having eyes in the back of the head. She had never seen herself from all points of view before. As she gazed, she strove not to be ashamed of her dress; but even her face and figure, which usually afforded her unqualified delight, seemed robust and middle-class in Miss Carew’s mirrors.

      “After all,” she said, seating herself on a chair that was even more luxurious to rest in than to look at; “putting the lace out of the question — and my old lace that belongs to mamma is quite as valuable — her whole dress cannot have cost much more than mine. At any rate, it is not worth much more, whatever she may have chosen to pay for it.”

      But Alice was clever enough to envy Miss Carew her manners more than her dress. She would not admit to herself that she was not thoroughly a lady; but she felt that Lydia, in the eye of a stranger, would answer that description better than she. Still, as far as she had observed, Miss Carew was exceedingly cool in her proceedings, and did not take any pains to please those with whom she conversed. Alice had often made compacts of friendship with young ladies, and had invited them to call her by her Christian name; but on such occasions she had always called themn “dear” or “darling,” and, while the friendship lasted (which was often longer than a month, for Alice was a steadfast girl), had never met them without exchanging an embrace and a hearty kiss.

      “And nothing,” she said, springing from the chair as she thought of this, and speaking very resolutely, “shall tempt me to believe that there is anything vulgar in sincere affection. I shall be on my guard against this woman.”

      Having settled that matter for the present, she resumed her examination of the apartment, and was more and more attracted by it as she proceeded. For, thanks to her eminence as a local beauty, she had not that fear of beautiful and rich things which renders abject people incapable of associating costliness with comfort. Had the counterpane of the bed been her own, she would have unhesitatingly converted it into a ball-dress. There were toilet appliances of which she had never felt the need, and could only guess the use. She looked with despair into the two large closets, thinking how poor a show her three dresses, her ulster, and her few old jackets would make there. There was also a dressing-room with a marble bath that made cleanliness a luxury instead of one of the sternest of the virtues, as it seemed at home. Yet she remarked that though every object was more or less ornamental, nothing had been placed in the rooms for the sake of ornament alone. Miss Carew, judged by her domestic arrangements, was a utilitarian before everything. There was a very handsome chimney piece; but as there was nothing on the mantel board, Alice made a faint effort to believe that it was inferior in point of taste to that in her own bedroom, which was covered with blue cloth, surrounded by fringe and brass headed nails, and laden with photographs in plush frames.

      The striking of the hour reminded her that she had forgotten to prepare for dinner. Khe hastily took off her hat, washed her hands, spent another minute among the mirrors, and was summoning courage to ring the bell, when a doubt occurred to her. Ought she to put on her gloves before going down or not? This kept her in perplexity for many seconds. At last she resolved to put her gloves in her pocket, and be guided as to their further disposal by the example of her hostess. Then, not daring to hesitate any longer, she rang the bell, and was presently joined by a French lady of polished manners — Miss Carew’s maid who conducted her to the boudoir, a hexagonal apartment that, Alice thought, a sultana might have envied. Lydia was there, reading. Alice noted with relief that she had not changed her dress, and that she was ungloved.

      Miss Goff did not enjoy the dinner. There was a butler who seemed to have nothing to do but stand at a buffet and watch her. There was also a swift, noiseless footman who presented himself at her elbow at intervals and compelled her to choose on the instant between unfamiliar things to eat and drink. She envied these men their knowledge of society, and shrank from their criticism. Once, after taking a piece of asparagus in her hand, she was deeply mortified at seeing her hostess consume the vegetable with the aid of a knife and fork; but the footman’s back was turned to her just then, and the butler, oppressed by the heat of the weather, was in a state of abstraction bordering on slumber. On the whole, by dint of imitating Miss Oarew, who did not plague her with any hostess-like vigilance, she came off without discredit to her breeding.

      Lydia, on her part, acknowledged no obligation to entertain her guest by chatting, and enjoyed her thoughts and her dinner in silence. Alice began to be fascinated by her, and to wonder what she was thinking about. She fancied that the footman was not quite free from the same influence. Even the butler might have been meditating himself to sleep on the subject. Alice felt tempted to offer her a penny for her thoughts. But she dared not be so familiar as yet. And, had the offer been made and accepted, butler, footman, and guest would have been plunged into equal confusion by the explanation, which would have run thus:

      “I saw a vision of the Hermes of Praxiteles in a sylvan haunt to-day; and I am thinking of that.”

      CHAPTER III

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      Next day Alice accepted Miss Carew’s invitation. Lydia, who seemed to regard all conclusions as foregone when she had once signified her approval of them, took the acceptance as a matter of course. Alice thereupon thought fit to remind her that there were other persons to be considered. So she said, “I should not have hesitated yesterday but for my mother. It seems so heartless to leave her.”

      “You have a sister at home, have you not?”

      “Yes. But she is not very strong, and my mother requires a great deal of attention.” Alice paused, and added in a lower voice, “She has never recovered from the shock of my father’s death.”

      “Your father is then not long dead?” said Lydia in her usual tone.

      “Only two years,” said Alice, coldly. “I hardly know how to tell my mother that I am going to desert her.”

      “Go and tell her today, Alice. You need not be afraid of hurting her. Grief of two years’ standing is only a bad habit.”

      Alice started, outraged. Her mother’s grief was sacred to her; and yet it was by her experience of her mother that she recognized the truth of Lydia’s remark, and felt that it was