"But what else could I have done?" she asked, when she saw we were laughing at her. "Well, my dear," said the Bishop, who always treated her with the kind indulgence that is accorded to a favourite child, "you might have paid the difference for the woman, and travelled comfortably yourself, don't you know?" Ideala never thought of that! Presently the dear old Bishop nestled back in his chair, and with a benign glance round, which, his scapegrace son said, meant: "Bless you, my children! Be happy and good in your own way, but don't make a noise!" he sank into a gentle doze, and the rest of the party relapsed into trivial gossip, some of which I give for what it is worth by way of illustration. It shows Ideala at about her worst, but marks a period in her career, a turning-point for the better. She was seldom bitter, and still more rarely frivolous, after that night. "Clare Turner will take none of the blame of that affair on his own shoulders," some one remarked. "Mr. Clare Turner is the little boy who always said 'It wasn't me!' grown up," Ideala decided, from the corner of her couch. "He is a sort of two-reason man." "How do you mean 'a two-reason man,' Ideala?" "Well, he has only two reasons for everything; one is his reason for doing anything he likes himself, which is always a good one; and the other is his reason why the rest of the world should not do likewise, which is equally clear--to himself. He thinks there should be one law for him and another for everybody else. I don't believe in him." "Nor I," said one of the gentlemen. "Underhand bowling was all he was celebrated for at school; he bowled most frightful sneaks all the time he was there." "Talking about Clare Turner," Charlie Lloyd put in, "I've brought a new book of poems--author unknown. I picked it up at the station to-day. There's one thing in it, called 'The Passion of Delysle,' that seems to be intense; but I've only just glanced at it, and don't really know what it's like. Shall I read it?" "Oh, do!" was the general exclamation, and we all settled ourselves to enjoy the following treat. Charlie began softly: O day and night! Oh day and night! and is this madness? O day and night! O day and night! and is this joy? Whence comes this bursting sense of life, and love, and gladness, This pain of pleasure, perfected, without alloy? Lo, flowing past me are the restless rivers, Or swelling round me is the boundless sea; Or else the widening waste of sand that quivers In shining stretches, shuts the world from me-- Or seems to shut it, while I would that what it seems might be.