“Oh, I quite sympathize with what you say,” said Philip encouragingly; “it isn’t nonsense, and a year or two ago I should have been saying it too.  But I feel differently now, and I hope that you also will change.  Society is invincible—­to a certain degree.  But your real life is your own, and nothing can touch it.  There is no power on earth that can prevent your criticizing and despising mediocrity—­nothing that can stop you retreating into splendour and beauty—­into the thoughts and beliefs that make the real life—­the real you.”

“I have never had that experience yet.  Surely I and my life must be where I live.”

Evidently she had the usual feminine incapacity for grasping philosophy.  But she had developed quite a personality, and he must see more of her.  “There is another great consolation against invincible mediocrity,” he said—­“the meeting a fellow-victim.  I hope that this is only the first of many discussions that we shall have together.”

She made a suitable reply.  The train reached Charing Cross, and they parted,—­he to go to a matinee, she to buy petticoats for the corpulent poor.  Her thoughts wandered as she bought them:  the gulf between herself and Mr. Herriton, which she had always known to be great, now seemed to her immeasurable.

These events and conversations took place at Christmas-time.  The New Life initiated by them lasted some seven months.  Then a little incident—­a mere little vexatious incident—­brought it to its close.

Irma collected picture post-cards, and Mrs. Herriton or Harriet always glanced first at all that came, lest the child should get hold of something vulgar.  On this occasion the subject seemed perfectly inoffensive—­a lot of ruined factory chimneys—­and Harriet was about to hand it to her niece when her eye was caught by the words on the margin.  She gave a shriek and flung the card into the grate.  Of course no fire was alight in July, and Irma only had to run and pick it out again.

“How dare you!” screamed her aunt.  “You wicked girl!  Give it here!”

Unfortunately Mrs. Herriton was out of the room.  Irma, who was not in awe of Harriet, danced round the table, reading as she did so, “View of the superb city of Monteriano—­from your lital brother.”

Stupid Harriet caught her, boxed her ears, and tore the post-card into fragments.  Irma howled with pain, and began shouting indignantly, “Who is my little brother?  Why have I never heard of him before?  Grandmamma!  Grandmamma!  Who is my little brother?  Who is my—­”

Mrs. Herriton swept into the room, saying, “Come with me, dear, and I will tell you.  Now it is time for you to know.”

Irma returned from the interview sobbing, though, as a matter of fact, she had learnt very little.  But that little took hold of her imagination.  She had promised secrecy—­she knew not why.  But what harm in talking of the little brother to those who had heard of him already?