raptures over the work--often unpleasant--of writers too young to be worth
serious consideration. They had long arguments in which Harriett, beaten,
retired behind _The Social Order_ and the _Remains_.

"It's silly," Lizzie said, "not to be able to look at a new thing because
it's new. That's the way you grow old."

"It's sillier," Harriett said, "to be always running after new things
because you think that's the way to look young. I've no wish to appear
younger than I am."

"I've no wish to appear suffering from senile decay."

"There _is_ a standard." Harriett lifted her obstinate and arrogant
chin. "You forget that I'm Hilton Frean's daughter."

"I'm William Pierce's, but that hasn't prevented my being myself."

Lizzie's mind had grown keener in her sharp middle age. As it played about
her, Harriett cowered; it was like being exposed, naked, to a cutting
wind. Her mind ran back to her father and mother, longing, like a child,
for their shelter and support, for the blessed assurance of herself.

At her worst she could still think with pleasure of the beauty of the act
which had given Robin to Priscilla.



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