You must not assume that Irene gave up a large amount of her time to conversation. She started work at twenty to seven in the morning, and if half-past four in the afternoon found her ready (in her own phrase) to pop upstairs and change, she counted she had scored a victory. After tea came duties of a more leisurely nature such as ironing, and later still—if luck favoured—a brief opportunity for the study of literature, from which she came in such a dazed, confused state of mind, that for the subsequent twenty minutes she could only give answers that possessed a conspicuous amount of incoherence. Those who have seen her with a number of “The Belgravia Novelette” report that her lips moved silently as she read the lines, that her features indicated, unconsciously, the emotions affecting each character: when a lady had to reject the advances of some unwelcome suitor (a frequent occurrence in the world of fiction where Mr. A., liking Miss B., finds this converted into ardent love when she announces she hates him with a hate that can never die), then Irene’s face showed stern and uncompromising decision: when a landscape artist proclaimed an affection he had hitherto concealed, her eyes half closed, and her head went gently to and fro. It is likely the pictures which accompanied these agreeable stories had some influence, although the fact that the people always wore evening dress prevented Irene from imitating every detail. The corkscrew curls, brought forward at each side of the face from a definite and decided parting, were brushed back. Irene was observed one night at about eight, on her return from commissariat duties in connection with next morning’s breakfast, staring earnestly at the head which, in a window, revolved slowly, vanishing and re-appearing with a fixed, haughty smile. A youth came up and made some remarks. “Don’t you address conversation to any one what you haven’t been introduced to,” she ordered, warmly. “Carry your parcel for you?” “Thanks,” replied Irene, “but I don’t want to lose it.” The youth, declining to take this as a repulse, followed, and Irene’s mistress reproved her for entering the house at the front door when the area gate was open. The very next day a fresh and daring experiment was made by fixing a white collar around the neck, and this was succeeded in the evening by a pair of cuffs. She seemed pleased with the general effect, and hastened to answer some knocks and rings at the front door instead of compelling every caller to repeat the summons. One of these she received with great curtness. “No, the name don’t live here.” “Beg pardon!” said a youth’s deep voice. “Perhaps I’ve got it wrong.” “Quite likely. Judging from your appearance.” “Doing any shopping to-night, miss?”