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|        Apartments        |
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in the clear bright windows.  At last in a street near the Hampstead Road she hit upon a room that had an exceptional quality of space and order, and a tall woman with a kindly face to show it.  “You’re a student, perhaps?” said the tall woman.  “At the Tredgold Women’s College,” said Ann Veronica.  She felt it would save explanations if she did not state she had left her home and was looking for employment.  The room was papered with green, large-patterned paper that was at worst a trifle dingy, and the arm-chair and the seats of the other chairs were covered with the unusual brightness of a large-patterned chintz, which also supplied the window-curtain.  There was a round table covered, not with the usual “tapestry” cover, but with a plain green cloth that went passably with the wall-paper.  In the recess beside the fireplace were some open bookshelves.  The carpet was a quiet drugget and not excessively worn, and the bed in the corner was covered by a white quilt.  There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks.  And the woman who showed this room was tall, with an understanding eye and the quiet manner of the well-trained servant.

Ann Veronica brought her luggage in a cab from the hotel; she tipped the hotel porter sixpence and overpaid the cabman eighteenpence, unpacked some of her books and possessions, and so made the room a little homelike, and then sat down in a by no means uncomfortable arm-chair before the fire.  She had arranged for a supper of tea, a boiled egg, and some tinned peaches.  She had discussed the general question of supplies with the helpful landlady.  “And now,” said Ann Veronica surveying her apartment with an unprecedented sense of proprietorship, “what is the next step?”

She spent the evening in writing—­it was a little difficult—­to her father and—­which was easier—­to the Widgetts.  She was greatly heartened by doing this.  The necessity of defending herself and assuming a confident and secure tone did much to dispell the sense of being exposed and indefensible in a huge dingy world that abounded in sinister possibilities.  She addressed her letters, meditated on them for a time, and then took them out and posted them.  Afterward she wanted to get her letter to her father back in order to read it over again, and, if it tallied with her general impression of it, re-write it.

He would know her address to-morrow.  She reflected upon that with a thrill of terror that was also, somehow, in some faint remote way, gleeful.

“Dear old Daddy,” she said, “he’ll make a fearful fuss.  Well, it had to happen somewhen....  Somehow.  I wonder what he’ll say?”

CHAPTER THE SIXTH

EXPOSTULATIONS