less fortunate.  Every educated person is really a missionary, whose duty it is to go forth and spread the light.  I feel it so strongly that I could not, simply could not, be satisfied to pursue my own culture; it seems to me the worst kind of selfishness.  The other day I went, on the business of our society, into a dreadfully poor home, where the people, I’m sure, often suffer from hunger.  I couldn’t give money—­for one thing, I have very little, and then it’s so demoralising, and one never knows whether the people will be offended—­but I sat down and told the poor woman all about the Prologue to the Canterbury Tales, and you can’t think how interested she was, and how grateful!  It quite brightened the day for her.  One felt one had done some good.”

There was silence.  Lady Ogram looked admiringly at the girl.  If anyone else had talked to her in this way, no vehemence of language would have sufficed to express her scorn; but in May Tomalin such ideals seemed to her a very amiable trait.  She was anxious to see everything May said or did in a favourable light.

“Have you tried the effect of music?” asked Constance, gravely, when Miss Tomalin chanced to regard her.

“Oh, we haven’t forgotten that.  Next winter we hope to give a few concerts in a schoolroom.  Of course it must be really good music; we shan’t have anything of a popular kind—­at least, we shan’t if my view prevails.  It isn’t our object to amuse people; it would be really humiliating to play and sing the kind of things the ignorant poor like.  We want to train their intelligence.  Some of our friends say it will be absurd to give them classical music, which will weary and discontent them.  But they must be made to understand that their weariness and discontent is wrong.  We have to show them how bad and poor their taste is, that they may strive to develop a higher and nobler.  I, for one, shall utterly decline to have anything to do with the concerts if the programme doesn’t consist exclusively of the really great, Bach and Beethoven and so on.  Don’t you agree with me?”

“In principle,” replied Lady Ogram, “certainly.  We shall have lots of things to talk about, I see.”

“I delight in talk about serious things!” cried May.

But Lady Ogram’s physical strength was not equal to the excitement she had gone through.  Long before dinner-time her voice failed, and she had no choice but to withdraw into privacy, leaving Constance Bride to play the hostess.  Alone with a companion of not much more than her own age, Miss Tomalin manifested relief; she began to move about, looking at things with frank curiosity, and talking in a more girlish way.  The evening was cloudy, and did not tempt forth, but May asked whether they could not walk a little in the garden.

“This is a beautiful place!  I shall enjoy myself here tremendously!  And it’s all so unexpected.  Of course you know, Miss Bride, that I had never heard of Lady Ogram until a few days ago?”