Story The Fourth Miss Ramsbotham gives her Services

To regard Miss Ramsbotham as a marriageable quantity would have occurred to few men.  Endowed by Nature with every feminine quality calculated to inspire liking, she had, on the other hand, been disinherited of every attribute calculated to excite passion.  An ugly woman has for some men an attraction; the proof is ever present to our eyes.  Miss Ramsbotham was plain but pleasant looking.  Large, healthy in mind and body, capable, self-reliant, and cheerful, blessed with a happy disposition together with a keen sense of humour, there was about her absolutely nothing for tenderness to lay hold of.  An ideal wife, she was an impossible sweetheart.  Every man was her friend.  The suggestion that any man could be her lover she herself would have greeted with a clear, ringing laugh.

Not that she held love in despite; for such folly she was possessed of far too much sound sense.  “To have somebody in love with you—somebody strong and good,” so she would confess to her few close intimates, a dreamy expression clouding for an instant her broad, sunny face, “why, it must be just lovely!”  For Miss Ramsbotham was prone to American phraseology, and had even been at some pains, during a six months’ journey through the States (whither she had been commissioned by a conscientious trade journal seeking reliable information concerning the condition of female textile workers) to acquire a slight but decided American accent.  It was her one affectation, but assumed, as one might feel certain, for a practical and legitimate object.

“You can have no conception,” she would explain, laughing, “what a help I find it.  ‘I’m ‘Muriken’ is the ‘Civis Romanus sum’ of the modern woman’s world.  It opens every door to us.  If I ring the bell and say, ‘Oh, if you please, I have come to interview Mr. So-and-So for such-and-such a paper,’ the footman looks through me at the opposite side of the street, and tells me to wait in the hall while he inquires if Mr. So-and-So will see me or not.  But if I say, ‘That’s my keerd, young man.  You tell your master Miss Ramsbotham is waiting for him in the showroom, and will take it real kind if he’ll just bustle himself,’ the poor fellow walks backwards till he stumbles against the bottom stair, and my gentleman comes down with profuse apologies for having kept me waiting three minutes and a half.

“’And to be in love with someone,” she would continue, “someone great that one could look up to and honour and worship—someone that would fill one’s whole life, make it beautiful, make every day worth living, I think that would be better still.  To work merely for one’s self, to think merely for one’s self, it is so much less interesting.”

Then, at some such point of the argument, Miss Ramsbotham would jump up from her chair and shake herself indignantly.

“Why, what nonsense I’m talking,” she would tell herself, and her listeners.  “I make a very fair income, have a host of friends, and enjoy every hour of my life.  I should like to have been pretty or handsome, of course; but no one can have all the good things of this world, and I have my brains.  At one time, perhaps, yes; but now—no, honestly I would not change myself.”

Miss Ramsbotham was sorry that no man had ever fallen in love with her, but that she could understand.

“It is quite clear to me.”  So she had once unburdened herself to her bosom friend.  “Man for the purposes of the race has been given two kinds of love, between which, according to his opportunities and temperament, he is free to choose: he can fall down upon his knees and adore physical beauty (for Nature ignores entirely our mental side), or he can take delight in circling with his protecting arm the weak and helpless.  Now, I make no appeal to either instinct.  I possess neither the charm nor beauty to attract—”

“Beauty,” reminded her the bosom friend, consolingly, “dwells in the beholder’s eye.”

“My dear,” cheerfully replied Miss Ramsbotham, “it would have to be an eye of the range and capacity Sam Weller frankly owned up to not possessing—a patent double-million magnifying, capable of seeing through a deal board and round the corner sort of eye—to detect any beauty in me.  And I am much too big and sensible for any man not a fool ever to think of wanting to take care of me.

“I believe,” remembered Miss Ramsbotham, “if it does not sound like idle boasting, I might have had a husband, of a kind, if Fate had not compelled me to save his life.  I met him one year at Huyst, a small, quiet watering-place on the Dutch coast.  He would walk always half a step behind me, regarding me out of the corner of his eye quite approvingly at times.  He was a widower—a good little man, devoted to his three charming children.  They took an immense fancy to me, and I really think I could have got on with him.  I am very adaptable, as you know.  But it was not to be.  He got out of his depth one morning, and unfortunately there was no one within distance but myself who could swim.  I knew what the result would be.  You remember Labiche’s comedy, Les Voyage de Monsieur Perrichon?  Of course, every man hates having had his life saved, after it is over; and you can imagine how he must hate having it saved by a woman.  But what was I to do?  In either case he would be lost to me, whether I let him drown or whether I rescued him.  So, as it really made no difference, I rescued him.  He was very grateful, and left the next morning.

“It is my destiny.  No man has ever fallen in love with me, and no man ever will.  I used to worry myself about it when I was younger.  As a child I hugged to my bosom for years an observation I had overheard an aunt of mine whisper to my mother one afternoon as they sat knitting and talking, not thinking I was listening.  ‘You never can tell,’ murmured my aunt, keeping her eyes carefully fixed upon her needles; ‘children change so.  I have known the plainest girls grow up into quite beautiful women.  I should not worry about it if I were you—not yet awhile.’  My mother was not at all a bad-looking woman, and my father was decidedly handsome; so there seemed no reason why I should not hope.  I pictured myself the ugly duckling of Andersen’s fairy-tale, and every morning on waking I would run straight to my glass and try to persuade myself that the feathers of the swan were beginning at last to show themselves.”  Miss Ramsbotham laughed, a genuine laugh of amusement, for of self-pity not a trace was now remaining to her.

“Later I plucked hope again,” continued Miss Ramsbotham her confession, “from the reading of a certain school of fiction more popular twenty years ago than now.  In these romances the heroine was never what you would call beautiful, unless in common with the hero you happened to possess exceptional powers of observation.  But she was better than that, she was good.  I do not regard as time wasted the hours I spent studying this quaint literature.  It helped me, I am sure, to form habits that have since been of service to me.  I made a point, when any young man visitor happened to be staying with us, of rising exceptionally early in the morning, so that I always appeared at the breakfast-table fresh, cheerful, and carefully dressed, with, when possible, a dew-besprinkled flower in my hair to prove that I had already been out in the garden.  The effort, as far as the young man visitor was concerned, was always thrown away; as a general rule, he came down late himself, and generally too drowsy to notice anything much.  But it was excellent practice for me.  I wake now at seven o’clock as a matter of course, whatever time I go to bed.  I made my own dresses and most of our cakes, and took care to let everybody know it.  Though I say it who should not, I play and sing rather well.  I certainly was never a fool.  I had no little brothers and sisters to whom to be exceptionally devoted, but I had my cousins about the house as much as possible, and damaged their characters, if anything, by over-indulgence.  My dear, it never caught even a curate!  I am not one of those women to run down men; I think them delightful creatures, and in a general way I find them very intelligent.  But where their hearts are concerned it is the girl with the frizzy hair, who wants two people to help her over the stile, that is their idea of an angel.  No man could fall in love with me; he couldn’t if he tried.  That I can understand; but”—Miss Ramsbotham sunk her voice to a more confidential tone—“what I cannot understand is that I have never fallen in love with any man, because I like them all.”

“You have given the explanation yourself,” suggested the bosom friend—one Susan Fossett, the “Aunt Emma” of The Ladies’ Journal, a nice woman, but talkative.  “You are too sensible.”

Miss Ramsbotham shook her head, “I should just love to fall in love.  When I think about it, I feel quite ashamed of myself for not having done so.”

Whether it was this idea, namely, that it was her duty, or whether it was that passion came to her, unsought, somewhat late in life, and therefore all the stronger, she herself would perhaps have been unable to declare.  Certain only it is that at over thirty years of age this clever, sensible, clear-seeing woman fell to sighing and blushing, starting and stammering at the sounding of a name, as though for all the world she had been a love-sick girl in her teens.

Susan Fossett, her bosom friend, brought the strange tidings to Bohemia one foggy November afternoon, her opportunity being a tea-party given by Peter Hope to commemorate the birthday of his adopted daughter and sub-editor, Jane Helen, commonly called Tommy.  The actual date of Tommy’s birthday was known only to the gods; but out of the London mist to wifeless, childless Peter she had come the evening of a certain November the eighteenth, and therefore by Peter and his friends November the eighteenth had been marked upon the calendar as a day on which they should rejoice together.

“It is bound to leak out sooner or later,” Susan Fossett was convinced, “so I may as well tell you: that gaby Mary Ramsbotham has got herself engaged.”

“Nonsense!” was Peter Hope’s involuntary ejaculation.

“Precisely what I mean to tell her the very next time I see her,” added Susan.

“Who to?” demanded Tommy.

“You mean ‘to whom.’  The preeposition governs the objective case,” corrected her James Douglas McTear, commonly called “The Wee Laddie,” who himself wrote English better than he spoke it.

“I meant ‘to whom,’” explained Tommy.

“Ye didna say it,” persisted the Wee Laddie.

“I don’t know to whom,” replied Miss Ramsbotham’s bosom friend, sipping tea and breathing indignation.  “To something idiotic and incongruous that will make her life a misery to her.”

Somerville, the briefless, held that in the absence of all data such conclusion was unjustifiable.

“If it had been to anything sensible,” was Miss Fossett’s opinion, “she would not have kept me in the dark about it, to spring it upon me like a bombshell.  I’ve never had so much as a hint from her until I received this absurd scrawl an hour ago.”

Miss Fossett produced from her bag a letter written in pencil.

“There can be no harm in your hearing it,” was Miss Fossett’s excuse; “it will give you an idea of the state of the poor thing’s mind.”

The tea-drinkers left their cups and gathered round her.  “Dear Susan,” read Miss Fossett, “I shall not be able to be with you to-morrow.  Please get me out of it nicely.  I can’t remember at the moment what it is.  You’ll be surprised to hear that I’m engaged—to be married, I mean, I can hardly realise it.  I hardly seem to know where I am.  Have just made up my mind to run down to Yorkshire and see grandmamma.  I must do something.  I must talk to somebody and—forgive me, dear—but you are so sensible, and just now—well I don’t feel sensible.  Will tell you all about it when I see you—next week, perhaps.  You must try to like him.  He is so handsome and really clever—in his own way.  Don’t scold me.  I never thought it possible that anyone could be so happy.  It’s quite a different sort of happiness to any other sort of happiness.  I don’t know how to describe it.  Please ask Burcot to let me off the antequarian congress.  I feel I should do it badly.  I am so thankful he has no relatives—in England.  I should have been so terribly nervous.  Twelve hours ago I could not have dreamt of it, and now I walk on tiptoe for fear of waking up.  Did I leave my chinchilla at your rooms?  Don’t be angry with me.  I should have told you if I had known.  In haste.  Yours, Mary.”

“It’s dated from Marylebone Road, and yesterday afternoon she did leave her chinchilla in my rooms, which makes me think it really must be from Mary Ramsbotham.  Otherwise I should have my doubts,” added Miss Fossett, as she folded up the letter and replaced it in her bag.

“Id is love!” was the explanation of Dr. William Smith, his round, red face illuminated with poetic ecstasy.  “Love has gone to her—has dransformed her once again into the leedle maid.”

“Love,” retorted Susan Fossett, “doesn’t transform an intelligent, educated woman into a person who writes a letter all in jerks, underlines every other word, spells antiquarian with an ’e,’ and Burcott’s name, whom she has known for the last eight years, with only one ’t.’  The woman has gone stark, staring mad!”

“We must wait until we have seen him,” was Peter’s judicious view.  “I should be so glad to think that the dear lady was happy.”

“So should I,” added Miss Fossett drily.

“One of the most sensible women I have ever met,” commented William Clodd.  “Lucky man, whoever he is.  Half wish I’d thought of it myself.”

“I am not saying that he isn’t,” retorted Miss Fossett.  “It isn’t him I’m worrying about.”

“I preesume you mean ‘he,’” suggested the Wee Laddie.  “The verb ‘to be’—”

“For goodness’ sake,” suggested Miss Fossett to Tommy, “give that man something to eat or drink.  That’s the worst of people who take up grammar late in life.  Like all converts, they become fanatical.”

“She’s a ripping good sort, is Mary Ramsbotham,” exclaimed Grindley junior, printer and publisher of Good Humour.  “The marvel to me is that no man hitherto has ever had the sense to want her.”

“Oh, you men!” cried Miss Fossett.  “A pretty face and an empty head is all you want.”

“Must they always go together?” laughed Mrs. Grindley junior, née Helvetia Appleyard.

“Exceptions prove the rule,” grunted Miss Fossett.

“What a happy saying that is,” smiled Mrs. Grindley junior.  “I wonder sometimes how conversation was ever carried on before it was invented.”

“De man who would fall in love wid our dear frent Mary,” thought Dr. Smith, “he must be quite egsceptional.”

“You needn’t talk about her as if she was a monster—I mean were,” corrected herself Miss Fossett, with a hasty glance towards the Wee Laddie.  “There isn’t a man I know that’s worthy of her.”

“I mean,” explained the doctor, “dat he must be a man of character—of brain.  Id is de noble man dat is attracted by de noble woman.”

“By the chorus-girl more often,” suggested Miss Fossett.

“We must hope for the best,” counselled Peter.  “I cannot believe that a clever, capable woman like Mary Ramsbotham would make a fool of herself.”

“From what I have seen,” replied Miss Fossett, “it’s just the clever people—as regards this particular matter—who do make fools of themselves.”

Unfortunately Miss Fossett’s judgment proved to be correct.  On being introduced a fortnight later to Miss Ramsbotham’s fiancé, the impulse of Bohemia was to exclaim, “Great Scott!  Whatever in the name of—”  Then on catching sight of Miss Ramsbotham’s transfigured face and trembling hands Bohemia recollected itself in time to murmur instead: “Delighted, I’m sure!” and to offer mechanical congratulations.  Reginald Peters was a pretty but remarkably foolish-looking lad of about two-and-twenty, with curly hair and receding chin; but to Miss Ramsbotham evidently a promising Apollo.  Her first meeting with him had taken place at one of the many political debating societies then in fashion, attendance at which Miss Ramsbotham found useful for purposes of journalistic “copy.”  Miss Ramsbotham, hitherto a Radical of pronounced views, he had succeeded under three months in converting into a strong supporter of the Gentlemanly Party.  His feeble political platitudes, which a little while before she would have seized upon merrily to ridicule, she now sat drinking in, her plain face suffused with admiration.  Away from him and in connection with those subjects—somewhat numerous—about which he knew little and cared less, she retained her sense and humour; but in his presence she remained comparatively speechless, gazing up into his somewhat watery eyes with the grateful expression of one learning wisdom from a master.

Her absurd adoration—irritating beyond measure to her friends, and which even to her lover, had he possessed a grain of sense, would have appeared ridiculous—to Master Peters was evidently a gratification.  Of selfish, exacting nature, he must have found the services of this brilliant woman of the world of much practical advantage.  Knowing all the most interesting people in London, it was her pride and pleasure to introduce him everywhere.  Her friends put up with him for her sake; to please her made him welcome, did their best to like him, and disguised their failure.  The free entry to a places of amusement saved his limited purse.  Her influence, he had instinct enough to perceive, could not fail to be of use to him in his profession: that of a barrister.  She praised him to prominent solicitors, took him to tea with judges’ wives, interested examiners on his behalf.  In return he overlooked her many disadvantages, and did not fail to let her know it.  Miss Ramsbotham’s gratitude was boundless.

“I do so wish I were younger and better looking,” she sighed to the bosom friend.  “For myself, I don’t mind; I have got used to it.  But it is so hard on Reggie.  He feels it, I know he does, though he never openly complains.”

“He would be a cad if he did,” answered Susan Fossett, who having tried conscientiously for a month to tolerate the fellow, had in the end declared her inability even to do more than avoid open expression of cordial dislike.  “Added to which I don’t quite see of what use it would be.  You never told him you were young and pretty, did you?”

“I told him, my dear,” replied Miss Ramsbotham, “the actual truth.  I don’t want to take any credit for doing so; it seemed the best course.  You see, unfortunately, I look my age.  With most men it would have made a difference.  You have no idea how good he is.  He assured me he had engaged himself to me with his eyes open, and that there was no need to dwell upon unpleasant topics.  It is so wonderful to me that he should care for me—he who could have half the women in London at his feet.”

“Yes, he’s the type that would attract them, I daresay,” agreed Susan Fossett.  “But are you quite sure that he does?—care for you, I mean.”

“My dear,” returned Miss Ramsbotham, “you remember Rochefoucauld’s definition.  ‘One loves, the other consents to be loved.’  If he will only let me do that I shall be content.  It is more than I had any right to expect.”

“Oh, you are a fool,” told her bluntly her bosom friend.

“I know I am,” admitted Miss Ramsbotham; “but I had no idea that being a fool was so delightful.”

Bohemia grew day by day more indignant and amazed.  Young Peters was not even a gentleman.  All the little offices of courtship he left to her.  It was she who helped him on with his coat, and afterwards adjusted her own cloak; she who carried the parcel, she who followed into and out of the restaurant.  Only when he thought anyone was watching would he make any attempt to behave to her with even ordinary courtesy.  He bullied her, contradicted her in public, ignored her openly.  Bohemia fumed with impotent rage, yet was bound to confess that so far as Miss Ramsbotham herself was concerned he had done more to make her happy than had ever all Bohemia put together.  A tender light took up its dwelling in her eyes, which for the first time it was noticed were singularly deep and expressive.  The blood, of which she possessed if anything too much, now came and went, so that her cheeks, in place of their insistent red, took on a varied pink and white.  Life had entered her thick dark hair, giving to it shade and shadow.

The woman began to grow younger.  She put on flesh.  Sex, hitherto dormant, began to show itself; femininities peeped out.  New tones, suggesting possibilities, crept into her voice.  Bohemia congratulated itself that the affair, after all, might turn out well.

Then Master Peters spoiled everything by showing a better side to his nature, and, careless of all worldly considerations, falling in love himself, honestly, with a girl at the bun shop.  He did the best thing under the circumstances that he could have done: told Miss Ramsbotham the plain truth, and left the decision in her hands.

Miss Ramsbotham acted as anyone who knew her would have foretold.  Possibly, in the silence of her delightful little four-roomed flat over the tailor’s shop in Marylebone Road, her sober, worthy maid dismissed for a holiday, she may have shed some tears; but, if so, no trace of them was allowed to mar the peace of mind of Mr. Peters.  She merely thanked him for being frank with her, and by a little present pain saving them both a future of disaster.  It was quite understandable; she knew he had never really been in love with her.  She had thought him the type of man that never does fall in love, as the word is generally understood—Miss Ramsbotham did not add, with anyone except himself—and had that been the case, and he content merely to be loved, they might have been happy together.  As it was—well, it was fortunate he had found out the truth before it was too late.  Now, would he take her advice?

Mr. Peters was genuinely grateful, as well he might be, and would consent to any suggestion that Miss Ramsbotham might make; felt he had behaved shabbily, was very much ashamed of himself, would be guided in all things by Miss Ramsbotham, whom he should always regard as the truest of friends, and so on.

Miss Ramsbotham’s suggestion was this: Mr. Peters, no more robust of body than of mind, had been speaking for some time past of travel.  Having nothing to do now but to wait for briefs, why not take this opportunity of visiting his only well-to-do relative, a Canadian farmer.  Meanwhile, let Miss Peggy leave the bun shop and take up her residence in Miss Ramsbotham’s flat.  Let there be no engagement—merely an understanding.  The girl was pretty, charming, good, Miss Ramsbotham felt sure; but—well, a little education, a little training in manners and behaviour would not be amiss, would it?  If, on returning at the end of six months or a year, Mr. Peters was still of the same mind, and Peggy also wishful, the affair would be easier, would it not?

There followed further expressions of eternal gratitude.  Miss Ramsbotham swept all such aside.  It would be pleasant to have a bright young girl to live with her; teaching, moulding such an one would be a pleasant occupation.

And thus it came to pass that Mr. Reginald Peters disappeared for a while from Bohemia, to the regret of but few, and there entered into it one Peggy Nutcombe, as pretty a child as ever gladdened the eye of man.  She had wavy, flaxen hair, a complexion that might have been manufactured from the essence of wild roses, the nose that Tennyson bestows upon his miller’s daughter, and a mouth worthy of the Lowther Arcade in its days of glory.  Add to this the quick grace of a kitten, with the appealing helplessness of a baby in its first short frock, and you will be able to forgive Mr. Reginald Peters his faithlessness.  Bohemia looked from one to the other—from the fairy to the woman—and ceased to blame.  That the fairy was as stupid as a camel, as selfish as a pig, and as lazy as a nigger Bohemia did not know; nor—so long as her figure and complexion remained what it was—would its judgment have been influenced, even if it had.  I speak of the Bohemian male.

But that is just what her figure and complexion did not do.  Mr. Reginald Peters, finding his uncle old, feeble, and inclined to be fond, deemed it to his advantage to stay longer than he had intended.  Twelve months went by.  Miss Peggy was losing her kittenish grace, was becoming lumpy.  A couple of pimples—one near the right-hand corner of her rosebud mouth, and another on the left-hand side of her tip-tilted nose—marred her baby face.  At the end of another six months the men called her plump, and the women fat.  Her walk was degenerating into a waddle; stairs caused her to grunt.  She took to breathing with her mouth, and Bohemia noticed that her teeth were small, badly coloured, and uneven.  The pimples grew in size and number.  The cream and white of her complexion was merging into a general yellow.  A certain greasiness of skin was manifesting itself.  Babyish ways in connection with a woman who must have weighed about eleven stone struck Bohemia as incongruous.  Her manners, judged alone, had improved.  But they had not improved her.  They did not belong to her; they did not fit her.  They sat on her as Sunday broadcloth on a yokel.  She had learned to employ her “h’s” correctly, and to speak good grammar.  This gave to her conversation a painfully artificial air.  The little learning she had absorbed was sufficient to bestow upon her an angry consciousness of her own invincible ignorance.

Meanwhile, Miss Ramsbotham had continued upon her course of rejuvenation.  At twenty-nine she had looked thirty-five; at thirty-two she looked not a day older than five-and-twenty.  Bohemia felt that should she retrograde further at the same rate she would soon have to shorten her frocks and let down her hair.  A nervous excitability had taken possession of her that was playing strange freaks not only with her body, but with her mind.  What it gave to the one it seemed to take from the other.  Old friends, accustomed to enjoy with her the luxury of plain speech, wondered in vain what they had done to offend her.  Her desire was now towards new friends, new faces.  Her sense of humour appeared to be departing from her; it became unsafe to jest with her.  On the other hand, she showed herself greedy for admiration and flattery.  Her former chums stepped back astonished to watch brainless young fops making their way with her by complimenting her upon her blouse, or whispering to her some trite nonsense about her eyelashes.  From her work she took a good percentage of her brain power to bestow it on her clothes.  Of course, she was successful.  Her dresses suited her, showed her to the best advantage.  Beautiful she could never be, and had sense enough to know it; but a charming, distinguished-looking woman she had already become.  Also, she was on the high road to becoming a vain, egotistical, commonplace woman.

It was during the process of this, her metamorphosis, that Peter Hope one evening received a note from her announcing her intention of visiting him the next morning at the editorial office of Good Humour.  She added in a postscript that she would prefer the interview to be private.

Punctually to the time appointed Miss Ramsbotham arrived.  Miss Ramsbotham, contrary to her custom, opened conversation with the weather.  Miss Ramsbotham was of opinion that there was every possibility of rain.  Peter Hope’s experience was that there was always possibility of rain.

“How is the Paper doing?” demanded Miss Ramsbotham.

The Paper—for a paper not yet two years old—was doing well.  “We expect very shortly—very shortly indeed,” explained Peter Hope, “to turn the corner.”

“Ah! that ‘corner,’” sympathised Miss Ramsbotham.

“I confess,” smiled Peter Hope, “it doesn’t seem to be exactly a right-angled corner.  One reaches it as one thinks.  But it takes some getting round—what I should describe as a cornery corner.”

“What you want,” thought Miss Ramsbotham, “are one or two popular features.”

“Popular features,” agreed Peter guardedly, scenting temptation, “are not to be despised, provided one steers clear of the vulgar and the commonplace.”

“A Ladies’ Page!” suggested Miss Ramsbotham—“a page that should make the woman buy it.  The women, believe me, are going to be of more and more importance to the weekly press.”

“But why should she want a special page to herself?” demanded Peter Hope.  “Why should not the paper as a whole appeal to her?”

“It doesn’t,” was all Miss Ramsbotham could offer in explanation.

“We give her literature and the drama, poetry, fiction, the higher politics, the—”

“I know, I know,” interrupted Miss Ramsbotham, who of late, among other failings new to her, had developed a tendency towards impatience; “but she gets all that in half a dozen other papers.  I have thought it out.”  Miss Ramsbotham leaned further across the editorial desk and sunk her voice unconsciously to a confidential whisper.  “Tell her the coming fashions.  Discuss the question whether hat or bonnet makes you look the younger.  Tell her whether red hair or black is to be the new colour, what size waist is being worn by the best people.  Oh, come!” laughed Miss Ramsbotham in answer to Peter’s shocked expression; “one cannot reform the world and human nature all at once.  You must appeal to people’s folly in order to get them to listen to your wisdom.  Make your paper a success first.  You can make it a power afterwards.”

“But,” argued Peter, “there are already such papers—papers devoted to—to that sort of thing, and to nothing else.”

“At sixpence!” replied the practical Miss Ramsbotham.  “I am thinking of the lower middle-class woman who has twenty pounds a year to spend on dress, and who takes twelve hours a day to think about it, poor creature.  My dear friend, there is a fortune in it.  Think of the advertisements.”

Poor Peter groaned—old Peter, the dreamer of dreams.  But for thought of Tommy! one day to be left alone to battle with a stony-eyed, deaf world, Peter most assuredly would have risen in his wrath, would have said to his distinguished-looking temptress, “Get thee behind me, Miss Ramsbotham.  My journalistic instinct whispers to me that your scheme, judged by the mammon of unrighteousness, is good.  It is a new departure.  Ten years hence half the London journals will have adopted it.  There is money in it.  But what of that?  Shall I for mere dross sell my editorial soul, turn the temple of the Mighty Pen into a den of—of milliners!  Good morning, Miss Ramsbotham.  I grieve for you.  I grieve for you as for a fellow-worker once inspired by devotion to a noble calling, who has fallen from her high estate.  Good morning, madam.”

So Peter thought as he sat tattooing with his finger-tips upon the desk; but only said—

“It would have to be well done.”

“Everything would depend upon how it was done,” agreed Miss Ramsbotham.  “Badly done, the idea would be wasted.  You would be merely giving it away to some other paper.”

“Do you know of anyone?” queried Peter.

“I was thinking of myself,” answered Miss Ramsbotham.

“I am sorry,” said Peter Hope.

“Why?” demanded Miss Ramsbotham.  “Don’t you think I could do it?”

“I think,” said Peter, “no one could do it better.  I am sorry you should wish to do it—that is all.”

“I want to do it,” replied Miss Ramsbotham, a note of doggedness in her voice.

“How much do you propose to charge me?” Peter smiled.

“Nothing.”

“My dear lady—”

“I could not in conscience,” explained Miss Ramsbotham, “take payment from both sides.  I am going to make a good deal out of it.  I am going to make out of it at least three hundred a year, and they will be glad to pay it.”

“Who will?”

“The dressmakers.  I shall be one of the most stylish women in London,” laughed Miss Ramsbotham.

“You used to be a sensible woman,” Peter reminded her.

“I want to live.”

“Can’t you manage to do it without—without being a fool, my dear.”

“No,” answered Miss Ramsbotham, “a woman can’t.  I’ve tried it.”

“Very well,” agreed Peter, “be it so.”

Peter had risen.  He laid his shapely, white old hand upon the woman’s shoulder.  “Tell me when you want to give it up.  I shall be glad.”

Thus it was arranged.  Good Humour gained circulation and—of more importance yet—advertisements; and Miss Ramsbotham, as she had predicted, the reputation of being one of the best-dressed women in London.  Her reason for desiring such reputation Peter Hope had shrewdly guessed.  Two months later his suspicions were confirmed.  Mr. Reginald Peters, his uncle being dead, was on his way back to England.

His return was awaited with impatience only by the occupants of the little flat in the Marylebone Road; and between these two the difference of symptom was marked.  Mistress Peggy, too stupid to comprehend the change that had been taking place in her, looked forward to her lover’s arrival with delight.  Mr. Reginald Peters, independently of his profession, was in consequence of his uncle’s death a man of means.  Miss Ramsbotham’s tutelage, which had always been distasteful to her, would now be at an end.  She would be a “lady” in the true sense of the word—according to Miss Peggy’s definition, a woman with nothing to do but eat and drink, and nothing to think of but dress.  Miss Ramsbotham, on the other hand, who might have anticipated the home-coming of her quondam admirer with hope, exhibited a strange condition of alarmed misery, which increased from day to day as the date drew nearer.

The meeting—whether by design or accident was never known—took place at an evening party given by the proprietors of a new journal.  The circumstance was certainly unfortunate for poor Peggy, whom Bohemia began to pity.  Mr. Peters, knowing both women would be there and so on the look-out, saw in the distance among the crowd of notabilities a superbly millinered, tall, graceful woman, whose face recalled sensations he could not for the moment place.  Chiefly noticeable about her were her exquisite neck and arms, and the air of perfect breeding with which she moved, talking and laughing, through the distinguished, fashionable throng.  Beside her strutted, nervously aggressive, a vulgar, fat, pimply, shapeless young woman, attracting universal attention by the incongruity of her presence in the room.  On being greeted by the graceful lady of the neck and arms, the conviction forced itself upon him that this could be no other than the once Miss Ramsbotham, plain of face and indifferent of dress, whose very appearance he had almost forgotten.  On being greeted gushingly as “Reggie” by the sallow-complexioned, over-dressed young woman he bowed with evident astonishment, and apologised for a memory that, so he assured the lady, had always been to him a source of despair.

Of course, he thanked his stars—and Miss Ramsbotham—that the engagement had never been formal.  So far as Mr. Peters was concerned, there was an end to Mistress Peggy’s dream of an existence of everlasting breakfasts in bed.  Leaving the Ramsbotham flat, she returned to the maternal roof, and there a course of hard work and plain living tended greatly to improve her figure and complexion; so that in course of time, the gods smiling again upon her, she married a foreman printer, and passes out of this story.

Meanwhile, Mr. Reginald Peters—older, and the possessor, perhaps, of more sense—looked at Miss Ramsbotham with new eyes, and now not tolerated but desired her.  Bohemia waited to assist at the happy termination of a pretty and somewhat novel romance.  Miss Ramsbotham had shown no sign of being attracted elsewhere.  Flattery, compliment, she continued to welcome; but merely, so it seemed, as favourable criticism.  Suitors more fit and proper were now not lacking, for Miss Ramsbotham, though a woman less desirable when won, came readily to the thought of wooing.  But to all such she turned a laughing face.

“I like her for it,” declared Susan Fossett; “and he has improved—there was room for it—though I wish it could have been some other.  There was Jack Herring—it would have been so much more suitable.  Or even Joe, in spite of his size.  But it’s her wedding, not ours; and she will never care for anyone else.”

And Bohemia bought its presents, and had them ready, but never gave them.  A few months later Mr. Reginald Peters returned to Canada, a bachelor.  Miss Ramsbotham expressed her desire for another private interview with Peter Hope.

“I may as well keep on the Letter to Clorinda,” thought Miss Ramsbotham.  “I have got into the knack of it.  But I will get you to pay me for it in the ordinary way.”

“I would rather have done so from the beginning,” explained Peter.

“I know.  I could not in conscience, as I told you, take from both sides.  For the future—well, they have said nothing; but I expect they are beginning to get tired of it.”

“And you!” questioned Peter.

“Yes.  I am tired of it myself,” laughed Miss Ramsbotham.  “Life isn’t long enough to be a well-dressed woman.”

“You have done with all that?”

“I hope so,” answered Miss Ramsbotham.

“And don’t want to talk any more about it?” suggested Peter.

“Not just at present.  I should find it so difficult to explain.”

By others, less sympathetic than old Peter, vigorous attempts were made to solve the mystery.  Miss Ramsbotham took enjoyment in cleverly evading these tormentors.  Thwarted at every point, the gossips turned to other themes.  Miss Ramsbotham found interest once again in the higher branches of her calling; became again, by slow degrees, the sensible, frank, ‘good sort’ that Bohemia had known, liked, respected—everything but loved.

Years later, to Susan Fossett, the case was made clear; and through Susan Fossett, a nice enough woman but talkative, those few still interested learned the explanation.

“Love,” said Miss Ramsbotham to the bosom friend, “is not regulated by reason.  As you say, there were many men I might have married with much more hope of happiness.  But I never cared for any other man.  He was not intellectual, was egotistical, possibly enough selfish.  The man should always be older than the woman; he was younger, and he was a weak character.  Yet I loved him.”

“I am glad you didn’t marry him,” said the bosom friend.

“So am I,” agreed Miss Ramsbotham.

“If you can’t trust me,” had said the bosom friend at this point, “don’t.”

“I meant to do right,” said Miss Ramsbotham, “upon my word of honour I did, in the beginning.”

“I don’t understand,” said the bosom friend.

“If she had been my own child,” continued Miss Ramsbotham, “I could not have done more—in the beginning.  I tried to teach her, to put some sense into her.  Lord! the hours I wasted on that little idiot!  I marvel at my own patience.  She was nothing but an animal.  An animal! she had only an animal’s vices.  To eat and drink and sleep was her idea of happiness; her one ambition male admiration, and she hadn’t character enough to put sufficient curb upon her stomach to retain it.  I reasoned with her, I pleaded with her, I bullied her.  Had I persisted I might have succeeded by sheer physical and mental strength in restraining her from ruining herself.  I was winning.  I had made her frightened of me.  Had I gone on, I might have won.  By dragging her out of bed in the morning, by insisting upon her taking exercise, by regulating every particle of food and drink she put into her mouth, I kept the little beast in good condition for nearly three months.  Then, I had to go away into the country for a few days; she swore she would obey my instructions.  When I came back I found she had been in bed most of the time, and had been living chiefly on chocolate and cakes.  She was curled up asleep in an easy-chair, snoring with her mouth wide open, when I opened the door.  And at sight of that picture the devil came to me and tempted me.  Why should I waste my time, wear myself out in mind and body, that the man I loved should marry a pig because it looked like an angel?  ‘Six months’ wallowing according to its own desires would reveal it in its true shape.  So from that day I left it to itself.  No, worse than that—I don’t want to spare myself—I encouraged her.  I let her have a fire in her bedroom, and half her meals in bed.  I let her have chocolate with tablespoonfuls of cream floating on the top: she loved it.  She was never really happy except when eating.  I let her order her own meals.  I took a fiendish delight watching the dainty limbs turning to shapeless fat, the pink-and-white complexion growing blotchy.  It is flesh that man loves; brain and mind and heart and soul! he never thinks of them.  This little pink-and-white sow could have cut me out with Solomon himself.  Why should such creatures have the world arranged for them, and we not be allowed to use our brains in our own defence?  But for my looking-glass I might have resisted the temptation, but I always had something of the man in me: the sport of the thing appealed to me.  I suppose it was the nervous excitement under which I was living that was changing me.  All my sap was going into my body.  Given sufficient time, I might meet her with her own weapons, animal against animal.  Well, you know the result: I won.  There was no doubt about his being in love with me.  His eyes would follow me round the room, feasting on me.  I had become a fine animal.  Men desired me, Do you know why I refused him?  He was in every way a better man than the silly boy I had fallen in love with; but he came back with a couple of false teeth: I saw the gold setting one day when he opened his mouth to laugh.  I don’t say for a moment, my dear, there is no such thing as love—love pure, ennobling, worthy of men and women, its roots in the heart and nowhere else.  But that love I had missed; and the other!  I saw it in its true light.  I had fallen in love with him because he was a pretty, curly-headed boy.  He had fallen in love with Peggy when she was pink-and-white and slim.  I shall always see the look that came into his eyes when she spoke to him at the hotel, the look of disgust and loathing.  The girl was the same; it was only her body that had grown older.  I could see his eyes fixed upon my arms and neck.  I had got to grow old in time, brown skinned, and wrinkled.  I thought of him, growing bald, fat—”

“If you had fallen in love with the right man,” had said Susan Fossett, “those ideas would not have come to you.”

“I know,” said Miss Ramsbotham.  “He will have to like me thin and in these clothes, just because I am nice, and good company, and helpful.  That is the man I am waiting for.”

He never came along.  A charming, bright-eyed, white-haired lady occupies alone a little flat in the Marylebone Road, looks in occasionally at the Writers’ Club.  She is still Miss Ramsbotham.

Bald-headed gentlemen feel young again talking to her: she is so sympathetic, so big-minded, so understanding.  Then, hearing the clock strike, tear themselves from her with a sigh, and return home—some of them—to stupid shrewish wives.