The next morning it was still raining. It was a typical Oxford day, a day of which there are so many in the year that those who have best known Oxford think of her fondly in terms of damp sandstone.

They remember her gabled roofs, narrow pavements, winding alleys humid and shining from recent rain; her mullioned windows looking out on high-walled gardens where the over-hanging trees drip and drip in chastened melancholy. They remember her floating spires piercing the lowering sodden sky, her grey courts and solemn doorways, her echoing cloisters; all her incomparable monastic glory soaked through and through with heavy languorous moisture, and slowly darkening in a misty twilight.

It is this sobering atmosphere that has brought to birth and has bred the "Oxford tone;" the remorseless, if somewhat playful handling of ideas.

Gwendolen Scott was no more aware of the existence of an "Oxford tone," bred (as all organic life has been) in the damp, than was the maidservant who brought her tea in the morning; but she perceived the damp. She could see through the latticed windows of the breakfast-room that it rained, rained and rained, and the question was what she should do to make the time pass till they must start for Chartcote? No letter had yet come from her mother—and the old letter was still lost.

The best Gwen could hope for was that it had been picked up and thrown into the paper basket and destroyed.

Meanwhile what should she do? Lady Dashwood was always occupied during the mornings. Mrs. Dashwood did not seem to be at her disposal. What was she to do? Should she practise the "Reverie"? No, she didn't want to "fag" at that. She had asked the housemaid to mend a pair of stockings, and she found these returned to her room—boggled! How maddening—what idiots servants were! She found another pair that wanted mending. She hadn't the courage to ask Louise to mend it. If she tried to mend it herself she would only make a mess of it—besides she hadn't any lisle thread or needles.

She would look at her frocks and try and decide what to wear at lunch. If she couldn't decide she would have to consult Lady Dashwood. Her room was rather dark. The window looked, not on to the quadrangle, but on to the street. She took each piece of dress to the window and gazed at it. The blue coat and skirt wouldn't do. She had worn that often, and the blouse was not fresh now. That must go back into the wardrobe. The likely clothes must be spread on the bed, where she could review them.

She ran her hand down a stiff rustling costume of brown silk. It gave her a pleasurable sensation. It was dark brown and inconspicuous, and yet "dressy." But would, after all, the blue coat and skirt be more suitable, as Oxford people never dressed? Yes; but she might meet other sort of people at Chartcote! It was a difficult question.

She passed on to a thin black and white cloth that was very "smart" and showed off her dark beauty. That and the white cloth hat would do! She had worn it once before and the Warden had talked a great deal to her when she had it on. She took out the dress and laid it on the bed, and she laid the hat upon it. Mrs. Dashwood had not seen the dress! By the by, Mrs. Dashwood and the Warden had scarcely talked at all at breakfast! He had once made a remark to her, and she had looked up and said "Yes," in a funny sort of way, just as if she agreed of course! H'm, there was really no need to be afraid of that! Supposing and if she, Gwen, were ever to be Mrs. Middleton, what sort of new clothes would she buy? Oh, all sorts of things would be necessary! And yet—the Warden seemed to be quietly drifting farther and farther away from her. Was that talk in the library a dream? Then if not, why didn't he say something? Did he say nothing, because in the library he had said, "If you want a home, etc., etc.?" Did he mean by that, "If you come and tell me that you want a home, etc., etc.?"

Gwen was not sure whether he meant "If you come and say you want a home, etc., etc.," or only, "If you want a home, etc., etc." How tiresome! He knew she wanted a home! But perhaps he wasn't sure whether she really wanted a home! Ought she to go and knock at the door and say that she really did want a home? Was he waiting for her to come and knock on the door and say, "I really do want a home, etc., etc.," and then come near enough to be kissed?

But after what Mr. Boreham had said, even if she did go and knock at the door and say that she really did want a home, etc., etc., and go and stand quite near him, the Warden might pretend not to understand and merely say, "I'm sorry," and go on writing.

How did girls make sure that a proposal was binding? Did they manage somehow to have it in writing? But how could she have said to the Warden, "Would you mind putting it all down in writing"? She really couldn't have said such a thing!

Gwen could not quite make up her mind what to wear. She had put the brown silk and one or two more dresses on the bed without being able to come to any conclusion.

It would be necessary to ask advice. Having covered the bed with "possible" dresses, Gwen went out to search for Lady Dashwood.

She had not to go far, for she met her just outside the door.

"Oh, Lady Dashwood," began Gwen, "could you, would you mind telling me what I am to wear for lunch? I'm so sorry to be such a bother, but I'm——"

Here Gwen stopped short, for her eyes caught sight of a letter in Lady Dashwood's hand—the letter! If Gwen had known how to faint she would have tried to faint then; but she didn't know how it was done.

"I found this letter addressed to you," said Lady Dashwood, "in my room—it had got there somehow." She held it out to the girl, who took it, reddening as she did so to the roots of her hair. "I found it opened—I hope I didn't open it by mistake?"

"Oh no," said Gwen, stammering. "I—lost it—somehow. Oh, thanks so much! Oh, thanks!"

Tears of embarrassment were starting to the girl's eyes, and she turned away, letter in hand, and went towards her door like a beaten child.

Lady Dashwood gazed after her, pity uppermost in her heart—pity, now that Belinda and Co. were no longer dangerous.

Safely inside the door, Gwen gave way to regret, and from regret for her carelessness she went on to wondering wildly what effect the letter might have had on Lady Dashwood! Had she told the Warden its contents? Had she read the letter to him?

Gwen squirmed as she walked about her room. There was a look in Lady Dashwood's face! Oh dear, oh dear!

The dresses lay neglected on the bed; the sight of them only made Gwen's heart ache the more, for they reminded her of those bright hopes that had flitted through her brain—hopes of having more important clothes as the Warden's wife. Gwen had even gone as far as wondering whether Cousin Bridget might not give her some furs as a wedding present. Cousin Bridget had spent over a thousand pounds in new furs for herself that first winter of the war, when the style changed; so was it too much to expect that Cousin Bridget, who was the wealthy member of the family, though her husband's title was a new one, might give her a useful wedding present? Now, the mischance with this letter had probably destroyed all chances of the Warden marrying her!

She was glad that he had gone away to-day, so that she would not see him again till the next morning; that gave more time.

She did not want to go to Chartcote to lunch. She would not be able to eat anything if she felt as miserable as she did now, and she would find it impossible to talk to any one.

Even her mother's letter of advice might not help her very much—now that old letter had been seen.

Gwen walked about her room, sometimes leaning over the foot of her bed and staring blankly at the dresses spread out before her, and sometimes stopping to look at herself in a long mirror on the way, feeling very sorry for that poor pretty girl whose image she saw reflected there. When she heard a knock at the door she almost jumped. Was it Lady Dashwood? Gwen's answering voice sounded very soft and meek, as if a mouse was saying "Come in" to a cat that demanded entrance.

It was Mrs. Dashwood who opened the door and walked in.

"You want advice about what to wear for lunch?" said Mrs. Dashwood. "Lady Dashwood is finishing off some parcels, and asked me to come and offer you my services—if you'll have me?" and she actually laughed as she caught sight of the display on the bed.

"Very business-like," she said, walking up to the bed. She did not seem to have noticed Gwen's distracted appearance, and this gave Gwen time and courage to compose her features and assume her ordinary bearing.

"Thanks so much," she said, going to the foot of the bed. "I was afraid I bothered Lady Dashwood when I asked about the lunch."

"It really doesn't much matter what it is you wear for Chartcote," said May Dashwood slowly, as her eye roamed over the bed. She did not appear to have heard Gwen's last remark.

"People do dress so funnily here," said Gwen, beginning to feel happy again, "but I thought perhaps that——"

"I think I should recommend that dark brown silk," said Mrs. Dashwood, "and if you have a black hat——"

"Yes, I have!" cried Gwen, with animation, and she rushed to the wardrobe. After all she did like Mrs. Dashwood. She was not so bad after all.

May received the black hat into her hands and praised it. She put it on the girl's head and then stood back to see the effect.

Gwen stood smiling, her face and dark hair framed by the black velvet.

"The very thing," said Mrs. Dashwood.

"Do try it on. You'd look lovely in it," gushed Gwen. The expression "You'd look lovely in it" came from her lips before she could stop it. Her instinctive antagonism to Mrs. Dashwood was fast oozing away.

May took the hat and put it on her own head, and then she looked round at the mirror.

"There!" said Gwen. "I told you so!"

May Dashwood regarded herself critically in the mirror and no smile came to her lips. She looked at her tall slender figure and the auburn hair under the black velvet brim as if she was looking at somebody else. May took off the hat and placed it on the bed by the dark brown silk.

"Now, you're complete," she said. "Quite complete;" but she looked out of her grey eyes at something far away, and did not see Gwendolen.

"If only I had a nice fur!" exclaimed the girl. "Mine is old, and it's the wrong shape, of course," she went on confidentially. She found herself suddenly desirous of making a life-long friend of Mrs. Dashwood. In spite of her age and the fact that she was very clever and all that, and that the Warden had begun by taking too much notice of her, Mrs. Dashwood was nice. Gwen wanted at that moment to "tell her everything," all about the "proposal," and see what she thought about it!

Gwen's emotions came and went in little spurts, and they were very absorbing for the moment.

"Don't be ashamed of yours," said Mrs. Dashwood, and as she spoke she went towards the door. "I can't say I admire the sisterhood of women who spend their pence on sham or their guineas on real fur and jewellery just now."

Gwen stared. She was not quite sure what the remark really meant—the word "sisterhood" confused her.

"If I were you," said Mrs. Dashwood, smiling, "I should begin to dress; we are to be ready at one punctually."

"Oh, thanks so much," said Gwen. "I know I take an age. I always do," she laughed.

As soon as Mrs. Dashwood had gone Gwen found it necessary to sit down and think whether she really liked Mrs. Dashwood so very much, or whether she only "just liked her," and this subject brought her back to the letter and the Warden, and all her lost opportunities! Gwen was startled by a knock at the door which she knew was produced by the knuckles of Lady Dashwood's maid.

"Oh, Mademoiselle!" cried Louise. "You have not commenced, and Madame is ready."

"The brown one," exclaimed Gwen, as Louise rushed towards the bed.

Louise fell upon the bed like a wild beast and began dressing Gwen with positive ferocity, protesting all the time in tones of physical agony mingled with moral indignation, her astonishment at Mademoiselle's indifference to the desires of Madame.

"I didn't know it was so late," said Gwen, who was not accustomed to such freedom from a servant.

More exclamations from Louise, who was hooking and buttoning and pulling and pushing like a fury.

"Well, leave off talking," said Gwen, looking very hot, "and don't pull so much."

More exclamations from Louise and more pulling, and at last Gwen stood complete in her brown dress and black hat. While she was thinking about what shoes she should put on, Louise had already seized a pair and was now pulling and pushing at her feet.

Lady Dashwood was giving instructions to Robinson in the hall, when Gwen came precipitately downstairs. The taxi was at the door, and Mrs. Dashwood was already seated in it.

It was still raining. Of course! Everything was wretched!

Now, what about an umbrella? Gwen gazed about her and seized an umbrella, earnestly trusting that it was not one that Lady Dashwood meant to use. How hot and flushed and late she was, and then—the letter! Oh, that letter! How horrible to be obliged to sit opposite to Lady Dashwood!

She ran down the steps without opening the umbrella, and dashed into the taxi, Lady Dashwood following under an umbrella held by Robinson.

"Here we are!" said Lady Dashwood. She seemed to have forgotten all about the letter, and she smiled at Gwen.

They passed out of the entrance court of the Lodgings and into the narrow street, and then into the High Street. The sky and the air and the road and the pavements and the buildings were grey. The Cherwell was grey, and its trees wept into it. The meadows were sodden; it was difficult to imagine that they could ever stand in tall ripe hay. There was a smell of damp decay in the air.

Gwen stared fixedly out of the window in order to avoid looking at the ladies opposite her. They seemed to be occupied with the continuance of a conversation that they had begun before. Now, Gwen's mind failed and fainted before conversation that was at all impersonal, and though she was listening, she did not grasp the whole of any one sentence. But she caught isolated words and phrases here and there, dreary words like "Education," "Oxford methods," and her attention was absorbed by the discovery that every time Mrs. Dashwood spoke, she said: "Does the Warden think?" just as if she knew what the Warden would think!

This was nasty of her. If only she always talked about Gwen's hat suiting her, and about other things that were really interesting, Gwen believed she could make a life-long friend of her, in spite of her age; but she would talk about stupid incomprehensible things—and about the Warden!

The Warden was growing a more and more remote figure in Gwen's mind. He was fading into something unsubstantial—something that Gwen could not lean against, or put her arms round. Would she never again have the opportunity of feeling how hard and smooth his shirt-front was? It was like china, only not cold. As she thought Gwen's eyes became misty and sad, and she ceased to notice what the two ladies opposite to her were saying.