It was a morning of doubtful fairness.  Before going to bed last night they had decided to walk out together this morning and purchase the present for Monica’s birthday, which was next Sunday.  But Alice felt too unwell to leave the house.  Virginia should write a reply to Miss Nunn’s letter, and then go to the bookseller’s alone.

She set forth at half-past nine.  With extreme care she had preserved an out-of-doors dress into the third summer; it did not look shabby.  Her mantle was in its second year only; the original fawn colour had gone to an indeterminate grey.  Her hat of brown straw was a possession for ever; it underwent new trimming, at an outlay of a few pence, when that became unavoidable.  Yet Virginia could not have been judged anything but a lady.  She wore her garments as only a lady can (the position and movement of the arms has much to do with this), and had the step never to be acquired by a person of vulgar instincts.

A very long walk was before her.  She wished to get as far as the Strand bookshops, not only for the sake of choice, but because this region pleased her and gave her a sense of holiday.  Past Battersea Park, over Chelsea Bridge, then the weary stretch to Victoria Station, and the upward labour to Charing Cross.  Five miles, at least, measured by pavement.  But Virginia walked quickly; at half-past eleven she was within sight of her goal.

A presentable copy of Keble’s work cost less than she had imagined.  This rejoiced her.  But after leaving the shop she had a singular expression on her face—­something more than weariness, something less than anxiety, something other than calculation.  In front of Charing Cross Station she stopped, looking vaguely about her.  Perhaps she had it in her mind to return home by omnibus, and was dreading the expense.  Yet of a sudden she turned and went up the approach to the railway.

At the entrance again she stopped.  Her features were now working in the strangest way, as though a difficulty of breathing had assailed her.  In her eyes was an eager yet frightened look; her lips stood apart.

Another quick movement, and she entered the station.  She went straight to the door of the refreshment room, and looked in through the glass.  Two or three people were standing inside.  She drew back, a tremor passing through her.

A lady came out.  Then again Virginia approached the door.  Two men only were within, talking together.  With a hurried, nervous movement, she pushed the door open and went up to a part of the counter as far as possible from the two customers.  Bending forward, she said to the barmaid in a voice just above a whisper,—­

‘Kindly give me a little brandy.’

Beads of perspiration were on her face, which had turned to a ghastly pallor.  The barmaid, concluding that she was ill, served her promptly and with a sympathetic look.

Virginia added to the spirit twice its quantity of water, standing, as she did so, half turned from the bar.  Then she sipped hurriedly two or three times, and at length took a draught.  Colour flowed to her cheeks; her eyes lost their frightened glare.  Another draught finished the stimulant.  She hastily wiped her lips, and walked away with firm step.