"Oh, Margaret," cried her aunt next morning, "such a most
unfortunate thing has happened. I could not get you alone."

The most unfortunate thing was not very serious. One of
the flats in the ornate block opposite had been taken
furnished by the Wilcox family, "coming up, no doubt, in the
hope of getting into London society." That Mrs. Munt should
be the first to discover the misfortune was not remarkable,
for she was so interested in the flats, that she watched
their every mutation with unwearying care. In theory she
despised them--they took away that old-world look--they cut
off the sun--flats house a flashy type of person. But if
the truth had been known, she found her visits to Wickham
Place twice as amusing since Wickham Mansions had arisen,
and would in a couple of days learn more about them than her
nieces in a couple of months, or her nephew in a couple of
years. She would stroll across and make friends with the
porters, and inquire what the rents were, exclaiming for
example: "What! a hundred and twenty for a basement?
You'll never get it!" And they would answer: "One can but
try, madam." The passenger lifts, the provision lifts, the
arrangement for coals (a great temptation for a dishonest
porter), were all familiar matters to her, and perhaps a
relief from the politico-economical-aesthetic atmosphere that
reigned at the Schlegels'.

Margaret received the information calmly, and did not
agree that it would throw a cloud over poor Helen's life.

"Oh, but Helen isn't a girl with no interests," she