Leonard listened to it with reverence. He felt that he
was being done good to, and that if he kept on with Ruskin,
and the Queen's Hall Concerts, and some pictures by Watts,
he would one day push his head out of the grey waters and
see the universe. He believed in sudden conversion, a
belief which may be right, but which is peculiarly
attractive to a half-baked mind. It is the bias of much
popular religion: in the domain of business it dominates the
Stock Exchange, and becomes that "bit of luck" by which all
successes and failures are explained. "If only I had a bit
of luck, the whole thing would come straight. . . . He's
got a most magnificent place down at Streatham and a 20
h.-p. Fiat, but then, mind you, he's had luck. . . . I'm
sorry the wife's so late, but she never has any luck over
catching trains." Leonard was superior to these people; he
did believe in effort and in a steady preparation for the
change that he desired. But of a heritage that may expand
gradually, he had no conception: he hoped to come to Culture
suddenly, much as the Revivalist hopes to come to Jesus.
Those Miss Schlegels had come to it; they had done the
trick; their hands were upon the ropes, once and for all.
And meanwhile, his flat was dark, as well as stuffy.

Presently there was a noise on the staircase. He shut
up Margaret's card in the pages of Ruskin, and opened the
door. A woman entered, of whom it is simplest to say that
she was not respectable. Her appearance was awesome. She
seemed all strings and bell-pulls--ribbons, chains, bead
necklaces that clinked and caught--and a boa of azure
feathers hung round her neck, with the ends uneven. Her