And when at length they came again to the High Street, the scene in Winnie’s eye had changed its hue. The din of the traffic was insufferable to her ears, and the press of people, making it difficult to thread one’s way, irritated her insanely. In their faces she saw now only a stupid mediocrity; and the petty cares which occupied them stamped their features with commonness. The gay shops were become sordid and mean. Jewellers showed silver bangles and silver brooches, low-priced and tawdry, red and green glass which masqueraded impudently under the beautiful names of emerald and ruby. Milliners offered the purchaser hats and bonnets in loud colours, imitating inexpensively what they thought the fashion of Paris. Other shops exposed the hideous details of commonplace existence, pots and pans, mangles, crockery, brushes and brooms. All things which artists had touched with their fashioning fingers, carpets, and furniture, pictures and statuettes, were cheaply parodied. Nowhere could be found restraint or modesty, but everything was flaunting and pretentious, gaudy, cheap and vulgar. Winnie bit her lip to prevent herself from speaking, but what she wished to say was this: “How can you talk of ideals with these people who only want to make a show, whose needs are so ignoble and paltry? Their very faces tell you how little they care for beauty, and grace, and virtue.” At the station Bertram asked uncertainly whether she would not like him to accompany her to South Kensington. “Please not!” she answered. “I can get home quite well alone. Will you excess my ticket?” They had come third class, but now she wished to be in a carriage by herself. He put her in when the train came, and wistfully leaned forward. “Won’t you kiss me, dearest?” Listlessly, with unsmiling mouth, she offered her lips. He kissed them, with eyes painfully yearning; but she, for the moment the train still lingered, kept hers averted. “I’m so dreadfully tired,” she said by way of excuse. Quickly the guard whistled, and the train steamed away. Winnie, thankful at last to be alone, huddled into the corner as though to hide herself. She burst out weeping, passionately, hopelessly. X Canon Spratte was dispirited. Certain words which Lady Sophia had used in a discussion upon Winnie’s engagement dwelt in his mind with discomforting persistence. The deliberate fashion with which she spoke gave a peculiar authority to her sayings; and though he roundly scoffed at them, the Canon could not help the feeling of uneasiness they left behind. “After all, you can say what you like, Theodore, but in point of fact we belong to just the same class as Bertram Railing. Are you sure that Winnie is not merely sinking to our proper level? It’s a tendency with families like ours, that have come up in the world; and with most of us, to keep up our nobility is just swimming against the stream.” “You’re mixing your metaphors, Sophia, and I haven’t an idea what you mean.”