“Oh, I wish I could make you understand!” cried Lady Aurora, looking at him with troubled, appealing eyes and as if he were unexpectedly discouraging. “But when all’s said I think I do understand! Charity exists in your nature as a kind of passion.” “Yes, yes, it’s a kind of passion!” her ladyship repeated eagerly, all thankful for the word. “I don’t know if it’s charity—I don’t mean that. But whatever it is it’s a passion—it’s my life—it’s all I care for.” She faltered as if there might be something indecent in the confession or uncertain in the recipient; and then evidently was mastered by the comfort of being able to justify herself for an eccentricity that had excited notice, as well as by the luxury of discharging her soul of a long accumulation of intense things. “Already when I was fifteen years old I wanted to sell all I had and give to the poor. And ever since I’ve wanted to do something: it has seemed as if my heart would break if I shouldn’t be able!” Hyacinth was struck with a great respect, which however didn’t prevent his presently saying, though in words that sounded patronising even to himself: “I suppose you’re very religious.” She looked away into the thickening dusk, at the smutty housetops, the blurred emanation of lamp-light above the streets. “I don’t know. One has one’s ideas. Some of them may be strange. I think a great many clergymen do good, but there are others I don’t like at all. I daresay we had too many always at home; my father likes them so particularly. I think I’ve known too many bishops, I’ve had the church too much on my back. I daresay they wouldn’t think at home, you know, that one was quite what one ought to be; but of course they consider me very odd in every way, as there’s no doubt I am. I should tell you that I don’t tell them everything; for what’s the use when people don’t understand? We’re twelve at home and eight of us girls; and if you think it’s so very splendid, and _she_ thinks so, I should like you both to try it for a little! My father isn’t rich and there’s only one of us, Eva, married, and we’re not at all handsome, and—oh there are all kinds of things,” the young woman went on, looking round at him an instant through her sense of being launched. “I don’t like society, and neither would you if you were to see the kind there is in London—at least in some parts,” Lady Aurora added considerately. “I daresay you wouldn’t believe all the humbuggery and the tiresomeness that one has to go through. But I’ve got out of it; I do as I like, though it has been rather a struggle. I have my liberty, and that’s the greatest blessing in life except the reputation of being queer, and even a little mad, which is a greater advantage still. I’m a little mad, you know; you needn’t be surprised if you hear it. That’s because I stop in town when they go into the country; all the autumn, all the winter, when there’s no one here (except three or four millions) and the rain drips,