Hilda smiled. "Dear old public! It does its best for us, doesn't it?
One loves it, you know, as sailors love the sea, never believing in
its treachery in the end. But I don't know why I say we are lightly
esteemed, or why I dogmatise about it at all. I've done nothing--I've
no right. In ten years perhaps--no, five--I'll write signed articles for
the New Review about modern dramatic tendencies. Meanwhile you'll have
to consider that the value of my opinions is prospective."

"But already you have succeeded--you have made a place."

"In Coolgardie, in Johannesburg, I think they remember me in
Trichinopoly too, and--yes, it may be so--in Manila. But that wasn't
legitimate drama," and Hilda smiled again in a way that coloured her
unspoken reminiscence, to Alicia's eyes, in rose and gold. She waited
an instant for these tints to materialise, but Miss Howe's smile slid
discreetly into her wineglass instead.

"There's immense picturesqueness in the Philippines," she went on, her
look of thoughtful criticism contrasting in the queerest way with her
hat. "Real ecclesiastical tyranny with pure traditions. One wonders what
America will do with those friars, when she does go there."

"Do you think she is going?" asked Alicia vaguely. It was the merest
politeness--she did not wait for a reply. With a courageous air which
became her charmingly, she went on, "Don't you long to submit yourself
to London? I should."

"Oh, I must. I know I must. It's in the path of duty and
conscience--it's not to be put off for ever. But one dreads the chained
slavery of London"--she hesitated before the audacity of adding, "the