For a whole year—first in the country, then in London—this went on, and Gwen never felt so unconsciously Christian-like in her life; she had no cause to rail against anything; she had no time to feel empty about the heart. Besides, her heart was filled in a way with the steam from the victims sacrificed in her honour, and the intangibility of the stuffing didn’t trouble her, it was warm and smelt like spikenard. As for the feelings of the victims, these did not enter into her calculations, the whole show was so absolutely impersonal to her. For any pangs she might feel for the aloofness of the two she called father and mother, she had decided some time ago to smother these and to cast them out, harbouring and encouraging them never having altered or influenced the state of affairs by one finger’s breadth. She saw little of Mr. and Mrs. Fellowes in these days. The Scripture lessons had come to an end and she had turned the whole subject into her mind’s rubbish hole; what she had learned was sufficiently interesting at the time, but it had never come any farther than to the outer edge of her life, even when it was warmed and lighted by Mr. Fellowes’ love for his subject and when the hours spent at the Rectory were the only bright flecks in the week’s dinginess. Now all these surroundings were withdrawn, the slight mist of glamour that used to hang round the subject had floated off, and Gwen was quite ready to shoot her stored-up accumulation of facts and deductions anywhere, to make room for more serviceable stuff. Only, what we have learned, good or bad, we must keep somewhere, God help us! She was a clever girl, however, and well-bred, and had read a good deal one way and the other, so she had the sense to hold her tongue and to keep her embryo opinions to herself. This made her equally magnanimous as regarded the opinions of her neighbours. “Gwen’s attitude of mind makes me quite sick,” said Mrs. Fellowes one day, “that is, when she shows a glimpse of it, which isn’t often nowadays. She hasn’t had a volcanic outbreak for a century, they are ruinous to one’s clothes, but I’d bear the spoiling of my new front for one this minute.” Mr. Fellowes laughed. “There is a twist in her somehow and we have come to a nasty obstruction. When she is properly straightened she’ll be a fine creature, but the untwisting will be too gradual for you, my poor Ruth, you’ll be worn out before it’s finished.” “One would think she was a boa constrictor, I believe she has a touch of its nature too; she crushes hearts enough anyway, and with just as little compunction. I am sorry for young Patrick Hamilton, I love that boy.” “Which is no reason at all why Gwen should. The girl doesn’t flirt, and he sought his crushing with open eyes. I believe it’s the girl’s brains as much as her beauty that dominates and reduces men’s hearts.”