“It’s a good lot, isn’t it?” said Nora, walking about.  “I wonder how many people in Oxford have two thousand a year?  A girl too.  It’s really rather exciting.”

“It won’t be very nice for us—­she’ll be so different.”  Alice’s tone was a little sulky and depressed.  The advent of this girl cousin, with her title, her good looks, her money, and her unfair advantages in the way of talking French and Italian, was only moderately pleasant to the eldest Miss Hooper.

“What—­you think she’ll snuff us out?” laughed Nora.  “Not she!  Oxford’s not like London.  People are not such snobs.”

“What a silly thing to say, Nora!  As if it wasn’t an enormous pull everywhere to have a handle to your name, and lots of money!”

“Well, I really think it’ll matter less here than anywhere.  Oxford, my dear—­or some of it—­pursues ‘the good and the beautiful’”—­said Nora, taking a flying leap on to the window-sill again, and beginning to poke up some tadpoles in a jar, which stood on the window-ledge.

Alice did not think it worth while to continue the conversation.  She had little or nothing of Nora’s belief in the other-worldliness of Oxford.  At this period, some thirty odd years ago, the invasion of Oxford on the north by whole new tribes of citizens had already begun.  The old days of University exclusiveness in a ring fence were long done with; the days of much learning and simple ways, when there were only two carriages in Oxford that were not doctors’ carriages, when the wives of professors and tutors went out to dinner in “chairs” drawn by men, and no person within the magic circle of the University knew anybody—­to speak of—­in the town outside.  The University indeed, at this later moment, still more than held its own, socially, amid the waves of new population that threatened to submerge it; and the occasional spectacle of retired generals and colonels, the growing number of broughams and victorias in the streets, or the rumours of persons with “smart” or “county” connections to be found among the rows of new villas spreading up the Banbury Road were still not sufficiently marked to disturb the essential character of the old and beautiful place.  But new ways and new manners were creeping in, and the young were sensitively aware of them, like birds that feel the signs of coming weather.

Alice fell into a brown study.  She was thinking about a recent dance given at a house in the Parks, where some of her particular friends had been present, and where, on the whole, she had enjoyed herself greatly.  Nothing is ever perfect, and she would have liked it better if Herbert Pryce’s sister had not—­past all denying—­had more partners and a greater success than herself, and if Herbert Pryce himself had not been—­just a little—­casual and inattentive.  But after all they had had two or three glorious supper dances, and he certainly would have kissed her hand, while they were sitting out in the garden, if she had not made haste to put it out of his reach.  “You never did anything of the kind till you were sure he did not mean to kiss it!” said conscience.  “I did not give myself away in the least!”—­was vanity’s angry reply.  “I was perfectly dignified.”