The Lorimers chose to regard her as a usurper; and with the justice usually attributed to their sex, indulged in much sarcastic comment on her appearance; on her round shoulders and swinging gait; on the green gown with balloon sleeves, and the sulphur-coloured handkerchief which she habitually wore. Presently Lucy looked up from her letter, folded it, sighed, and smiled. "What has your special artist to say for himself?" asked Phyllis, pushing away _The Woodcut_. "He writes in good spirits, but holds out no prospect of the war coming to an end. He was just about to go further into the interior, with General Somerset's division. Mr. Steele of _The Photogravure_, with whom he seems to have chummed, goes too," answered Lucy, putting the letter into her pocket. "Perhaps his sketches will be a little livelier in consequence. They are very dull this week." Phyllis rose as she spoke, stretching her arms above her head. "I think I will go and dine with Fan. She is such fun." Fanny had returned from Switzerland a day or two before, and was now in the full tide of bridal complacency. As mistress of a snug and hideous little house at Notting Hill, and wedded wife of a large and affectionate man, she was beginning to feel that she had a place in the world at last. "I will come up with you," said Lucy to Phyllis, "and brush your hair before you go." The two girls went from the room, leaving Gertrude alone. Letting fall her work into her lap, she leaned in dreamy idleness from the window, looking out into the street, where the afternoon was deepening apace into evening. A dun-coloured haze, thin and transparent, hung in the air, softening the long perspective of the street. School hours were over, and the Girtonian, her arm swinging like a bell-rope, could be discerned on her way home, a devoted _cortege_ of school-girls straggling in her wake. From the corner of the street floated up the cries of the newspaper boys, mingling with the clatter of omnibus wheels. An empty hansom cab crawled slowly by. Gertrude noticed that it had violet lamps instead of red ones. A lamplighter was going his rounds, leaving a lengthening line of orange-coloured lights to mark his track. The recollection of summer, the presage of winter, were met in the dusky atmosphere. "How the place echoes," thought Gertrude. It seemed to her that the boys crying the evening papers were more vociferous than usual; and as the thought passed through her mind, she was aware of a hateful, familiar sound--the hoarse shriek of a man proclaiming a "special edition" up the street. No amount of familiarity could conquer the instinctive shudder with which she always listened to these birds of ill-omen, these carrion, whose hideous task it is to gloat over human calamity. Now, as the sound grew louder and more distinct, the usual vague and sickening horror crept over her. She put her hands to her ears. "It is some ridiculous race, no doubt." She let in the sound again.