What words were they?

She could not recollect them now; but she was still conscious of the impression which they had produced upon her while they were being spoken.  That impression was that up to that instant all the issues of her life had been unworthy of a moment’s consideration.  She had taken what she believed to be a deep interest in many matters during the five years that she had been the head of her father’s house.  She had, she knew, been of the greatest help to her father in his political life, not merely turning her memory to good account in discovering the incautious phrases in the speeches of the men who were foolish enough to be his opponents, but actually advising him, when he asked her, on many matters about which the newspapers had been full.  Then she had taken an active part in more than one of those “movements” which became the topic of a London season until compelled by an invisible but all-powerful authority to move on and make way for the next new thing.  She had moved with every movement, and had proved her capacity to control herself when the movement became uncontrollable.  And then she had thought how worthy a position in life would be that of the wife of the rector of a church like St. Chad’s.

That idea had remained with her, as had already been said, for some months, until, to be exact in regard to the date, the other young women, whom she had been watching with interest, had bought their brilliant blouses with the newest and, consequently, most abnormal sleeves, casting aside the sober-hued bodices which they had worn in hope.

How paltry were all these aspirations, these undertakings!

That was what was dinning in her ears all the time Ella had been talking in the carriage.

But why, why, why should all her previous interests, including the consideration of the questions of orthodoxy and the other thing, seem so ridiculously small while Ella was speaking?

That was the question which puzzled her.  Had Ella shown her a way to something better, something higher, something better worthy of the aspiration of a woman?  She could not say that that had been the drift of her large discourse.  What she had said had actually been puzzling in its vagueness, its daring images—­all images are vague; its allegories—­all allegories are indefinite.

And yet—­and yet—­and yet——­

With a motion of impatience Phyllis sprang to her feet.  After a pause she went to a little satin-wood cabinet which she had turned into a bookshelf, and took out her Bible.  She had never slept a night for years without reading a chapter; and in order to avert the possibility of her own feelings or fancies of the moment making any invidious distinction between the various component parts of a book which is profitable in every line, she had accustomed herself to read the chapters in consecutive order from The Genesis to The Revelation.  Sometimes, when she found herself