She was haunted by an uneasy sense of doubtfulness as to her social position.  Mr. Lord followed the calling of a dealer in pianos; a respectable business, to be sure, but, it appeared, not lucrative enough to put her above caring how his money was made.  She knew that one’s father may be anything whatever, yet suffer no social disability, provided he reap profit enough from the pursuit.  But Stephen Lord, whilst resorting daily to his warehouse in Camberwell Road—­not a locality that one would care to talk about in ‘cultured’ circles—­continued, after twenty years, to occupy this small and ugly dwelling in Grove Lane.  Possibly, owing to an imperfect education, he failed to appreciate his daughter’s needs, and saw no reason why she should not be happy in the old surroundings.

On the other hand, perhaps he cared very little about her.  Undoubtedly his favourite was Horace, and in Horace he had suffered a disappointment.  The boy, in spite of good schooling, had proved unequal to his father’s hope that he would choose some professional career, by preference the law; he idled away his schooldays, failed at examinations, and ultimately had to be sent into ‘business.’  Mr Lord obtained a place for him in a large shipping agency; but it still seemed doubtful whether he would make any progress there, notwithstanding the advantage of his start; at two-and-twenty he was remunerated with a mere thirty shillings a week, a nominal salary,’ his employers called it.  Nancy often felt angry with her brother for his lack of energy and ambition; he might so easily, she thought, have helped to establish, by his professional dignity, her own social status at the level she desired.

There came into view a familiar figure, crossing from the other side of the way.  Nancy started, waved her hand, and went to open the door.  Her look had wholly altered; she was bright, mirthful, overflowing with affectionate welcome.

This friend of hers, Jessica Morgan by name, had few personal attractions.  She looked overwrought and low-spirited; a very plain and slightly-made summer gown exhibited her meagre frame with undue frankness; her face might have been pretty if health had filled and coloured the flesh, but as it was she looked a ghost of girlhood, a dolorous image of frustrate sex.  In her cotton-gloved hand she carried several volumes and notebooks.

‘I’m so glad you’re in,’ was her first utterance, between pants after hasty walking and the jerks of a nervous little laugh.  ’I want to ask you something about Geometrical Progression.  You remember that formula—­’

‘How can I remember what I never knew?’ exclaimed Nancy.  ’I always hated those formulas; I couldn’t learn them to save my life.’

’Oh, that’s nonsense!  You were much better at mathematics than I was.  Do just look at what I mean.’

She threw her books down upon a chair, and opened some pages of scrawled manuscript, talking hurriedly in a thin falsetto.