atmosphere:  he has found one to revolve about him.  If she only had some clouds!  A mist here and there, so that everything would not be so plain, so exposed, so terribly open!  But neither has he any clouds, any mists, any atmosphere.  And if she only would not so try to expose other people!  If she had not so trampled upon me in my ignorance; and with such a sense of triumph!  I was never so educated in my life by a visitor.  The amount of information she imparted in half an hour—­how many months it would have served the purpose of a well-bred woman!  And her pride in her family—­were there ever such little brothers and sisters outside a royal family!  And her devotion to her father, and remembrance of her mother.  I shall go to see her, and be received, I suppose, somewhere between the griddle and the churn.”

As Pansy was driven home, feeling under herself for the first time the elasticity of a perfect carriage, she experimented with her posture.  “This carriage is not to be sat in in the usual way,” she said.  And indeed it was not.  In the family rockaway there was constant need of muscular adjustment to different shocks at successive moments; here muscular surrender was required:  a comfortable collapse—­and there you were!

Trouble awaited her at home.  Owing to preoccupation with her visit she had, before setting out, neglected much of her morning work.  She had especially forgotten the hungry multitude of her dependants.  The children, taking advantage of her absence, had fed only themselves.  As a consequence, the trustful lives around the house had suffered a great wrong, and they were attempting to describe it to each other.  The instant Pansy descended from the carriage the ducks, massed around the doorsteps, discovered her, and with frantic outcry and outstretched necks ran to find out what it all meant.  The signal was taken up by other species and genera.  In the stable lot the calves responded as the French horn end of the orchestra; and the youngest of her little brothers, who had climbed into a fruit tree as a lookout for her return, in scrambling hurriedly down, dropped to the earth with the boneless thud of an opossum.

Pansy walked straight up to her room, heeding nothing, leaving a wailing wake.  She locked herself in.  It was an hour before dinner and she needed all those moments for herself.

She sat on the edge of her bed and new light brought new wretchedness.  It was not, after all, quantity of information that made the chief difference between herself and Dent’s mother.  The other things, all the other things—­would she ever, ever acquire them!  Finally the picture rose before her of how the footman had looked as he had held the carriage door open for her, and the ducks had sprawled over his feet; and she threw herself on the bed, hat and all, and burst out crying with rage and grief and mortification.

“She will think I am common,” she moaned, “and I am not common!  Why did I say such things?  It is not my way of talking.  Why did I criticise the way the portrait was hung?  And she will think this is what I really am, and it is not what I am!  She will think I do not even know how to sit in a chair, and she will tell Dent, and Dent will believe her, and what will become of me?”