When next she had occasion to go to the studio, she remembered the necessity of economy, and took the St. John's Wood omnibus. As a general rule the travellers between Baker Street station and the Swiss Cottage are of a superior class, being mostly the well-to-do residents in the neighbourhood and their visitors; but, by an unlucky chance, this particular omnibus was crowded, and Norma found herself wedged between a labouring man redolent of stale beer and bad tobacco, and a fat Jewish lady highly flavoured with musk. A youth getting out awkwardly knocked her hat awry with his elbow. It began to rain--a smart April shower. The wet umbrella of a new arrival dripped on her dress while he stood waiting for a place to be made for him opposite. The omnibus stopped at a shelterless corner, the nearest point to Friary Grove. She descended to pitiless rain and streaming pavements and a five minutes' walk, for all of which her umbrella and shoes were inadequate. She vowed miserably a life-long detestation of omnibuses. She would never enter one again. Cabs were the only possible conveyances for people who could not afford to keep their carriage. She fought down the dread that she might not be able to afford cabs. The Almighty, who had obviously intended her to drive in cabs, would certainly see that His intentions were carried out. She arrived at the studio, wet, bedraggled, and angry; but Jimmie's exaggerated concern disarmed her. It could not have been less had she wandered for miles and been drenched to the skin and chilled to the bone. He sent Aline to fetch her daintiest slippers to replace the damp shoes, established the storm-driven sufferer in the big leathern armchair with cushions at her back and hassocks at her feet, made a roaring fire and insisted on her swallowing cherry brandy, a bottle of which he kept in the house in case of illness. In the unwonted luxury of being loved and petted and foolishly fussed over, Norma again forgot her troubles. Jimmie consoled the specific grievance by saying magniloquently that omnibuses were the engines of the devil and vehicles of the wrath to come. With a drugged economic conscience she went home in a cab. But the conscience awoke later, somewhat suffering, and she recognised that her exasperated vow had been vain. Jimmie was a poor man. She recalled to mind his words on the night of their engagement, and apprehended their significance. The trivial incident of the omnibus was a key. The abandonment of cabs and carriages meant the surrender of countless luxuries that went therewith. Her own two hundred a year would not greatly raise the scale of living. She was to be a poor man's wife; would have to wear cheap dresses, eat plain food, keep household books in which pennies were accounted for; hers would be the humdrum existence of the less prosperous middle class. The first pang of doubt frightened her for a while and left her ashamed. Noble revolt followed. Had she not