She tried to think how people get work.  Ought she to walk into some of these places and tell them what she could do?  She hesitated at the window of a shipping-office in Cockspur Street and at the Army and Navy Stores, but decided that perhaps there would be some special and customary hour, and that it would be better for her to find this out before she made her attempt.  And, besides, she didn’t just immediately want to make her attempt.

She fell into a pleasant dream of positions and work.  Behind every one of these myriad fronts she passed there must be a career or careers.  Her ideas of women’s employment and a modern woman’s pose in life were based largely on the figure of Vivie Warren in Mrs. Warren’s Profession.  She had seen Mrs. Warren’s Profession furtively with Hetty Widgett from the gallery of a Stage Society performance one Monday afternoon.  Most of it had been incomprehensible to her, or comprehensible in a way that checked further curiosity, but the figure of Vivien, hard, capable, successful, and bullying, and ordering about a veritable Teddy in the person of Frank Gardner, appealed to her.  She saw herself in very much Vivie’s position—­managing something.

Her thoughts were deflected from Vivie Warren by the peculiar behavior of a middle-aged gentleman in Piccadilly.  He appeared suddenly from the infinite in the neighborhood of the Burlington Arcade, crossing the pavement toward her and with his eyes upon her.  He seemed to her indistinguishably about her father’s age.  He wore a silk hat a little tilted, and a morning coat buttoned round a tight, contained figure; and a white slip gave a finish to his costume and endorsed the quiet distinction of his tie.  His face was a little flushed perhaps, and his small, brown eyes were bright.  He stopped on the curb-stone, not facing her but as if he was on his way to cross the road, and spoke to her suddenly over his shoulder.

“Whither away?” he said, very distinctly in a curiously wheedling voice.  Ann Veronica stared at his foolish, propitiatory smile, his hungry gaze, through one moment of amazement, then stepped aside and went on her way with a quickened step.  But her mind was ruffled, and its mirror-like surface of satisfaction was not easily restored.

Queer old gentleman!

The art of ignoring is one of the accomplishments of every well-bred girl, so carefully instilled that at last she can even ignore her own thoughts and her own knowledge.  Ann Veronica could at the same time ask herself what this queer old gentleman could have meant by speaking to her, and know—­know in general terms, at least—­what that accosting signified.  About her, as she had gone day by day to and from the Tredgold College, she had seen and not seen many an incidental aspect of those sides of life about which girls are expected to know nothing, aspects that were extraordinarily relevant to her own position and outlook on the world, and yet by convention ineffably remote.  For all that she was of exceptional intellectual enterprise, she had never yet considered these things with unaverted eyes.  She had viewed them askance, and without exchanging ideas with any one else in the world about them.