They are just modern, you see-terribly modern, the reverse of archaic.

They must keep with the times; that they have determined on. There is no use whatever in opposing them. Doubtless life will teach them its own lesson, and they will be delightful when they return from St. Wode's."

"How long must they stay there?" asked Mrs. Chetwynd. She took up her handkerchief as she spoke, to wipe away the tears from her eyes.

"I believe the usual course is three years," said Lettie. "You cannot get your certificate, which is equivalent to a degree, under that time."

"Your certificate, which is equivalent to a degree, Lettie! Oh, my child, not a man living will speak to the girls. They will never be married, Lettie; they will be old maids to the end of the chapter. It is fearful to think of it!"

"Well, they don't actually _take_ a degree, because it is not allowed,"

said Lettie; "but they work for it, and they get the honor."

"Worse and worse," cried Mrs. Chetwynd. "You see how sternly the men disapprove of this fearful step on the part of modern women."

Let.i.tia suppressed a short sigh.

"The girls are modern, and nothing will make them anything else," she said.

"And yet, my dear, they are the reverse of fashionable."

"Oh, Aunt Helen, I think fashionable women are going out."

"Going out, my dear! What can you mean?"

"I really do think so; there will be fewer and fewer as time goes on. We are so terribly earnest now, we have no time to think of mere ornamentation."

"Thank goodness, Lettie, you at least will always dress neatly."

"I should think so," replied Lettie. "I honestly confess that I am quite fond of clothes, and I like to look smart."

"Well, dear, it is a comfort that I shall have you to stay with me."

"But, Aunt Helen, I am ever so sorry. I think you ought to let me go too."

"You, Lettie? You go to St. Wode's College? What do you mean?"

"I think I ought to go, if for no other reason than to watch those two poor dear girls through this eccentric phase of their existence. Think of them, Aunt Helen, alone with Belle Acheson!"

"There is something in what you say," said Mrs. Chetwynd; "and as Mrs.

Acheson intends to go on the Continent in the winter, and she wishes me to-oh, of course I pooh-poohed the idea; but I really think I shall do it now. I shall go about from one fashionable place to another and amuse myself, and try to forget that I have children. Oh, it is a cruel, a crushing disappointment."

"You will live through it," said Lettie. She bent and kissed Mrs.

Chetwynd on her cheek.

"After all," she continued, "there is no good in forcing Marjorie and Eileen into grooves which were never meant for them. You will write to Miss Lauderdale, will you not, to-night?"

"My dear child, have the goodness to write to her yourself, and I will sign the letter. I have not the faintest idea what I am to say to that woman."

"I will write, then, at once," said Lettie.

She skipped across the drawing-room to her aunt's davenport, took out a sheet of paper, rapidly wrote a few words, and then brought her letter to Mrs. Chetwynd to sign. In less than an hour that letter was dropped into the nearest pillar-box.

Thus was the fate of the three girls quickly decided.

CHAPTER VIII

THE GILROYS.

The Gilroys lived in a small house in West Kensington. The house was full to overflowing. There were a great many children, ranging from Leslie the eldest girl, aged nineteen, to little Dan, aged two. Mrs.

Gilroy was one of the busiest women in London. She had a small income, not exceeding three hundred a year, and six children to maintain. When her husband died, a month before little Dan's birth, the mother made up her mind not to skimp the children's education, not to starve them on a mere pittance, but to add to her income by her own exertions. She was very clever and strong both in mind and body. All her children loved her pa.s.sionately.

Mr. Gilroy, during his lifetime, had been sub-editor on a large London daily, and after his death Mrs. Gilroy got a post on the staff. She also did a good deal of other journalistic work, and occasionally wrote up-to-date articles in the magazines. Thus she added considerably to her income, and the children never wanted for anything.

The house was a model of neatness and order, although there was only one small servant; but then each child had been trained thoroughly, and each child did his or her appointed task without a murmur. The faces of all the young Gilroys were bright, all the pairs of eyes were frank and happy; but the mother had to work very hard. Often and often, when all the children were in bed, she sat up or went round from one editor's office to another supplying the necessary items which would appear the next morning in the papers. She enjoyed her work and never complained; and Llewellyn and Leslie, the eldest boy and girl, sympathized heart and soul with her.

On the very day when Belle Acheson had visited the Chetwynds in their fashionable house in Belgravia, Mrs. Gilroy, coming in later than usual, found Llewellyn, a handsome lad of sixteen years of age, crouching over the fire in the little parlor, with his head in his hands.

"What is wrong, Lew?" said the mother.

"Nothing," he answered. "I have only been thinking."

"But what about, my boy?"

Mrs. Gilroy seldom petted her children, she seldom used loving words to them; but then her touch was a caress. She laid her hand now upon the lad's shoulder; he looked up into her kindly firm face; and the shadow fell from his own.

"It's just nothing," he cried. "I ought to be ashamed of myself. Don't ask me at the present moment, mother. I have a fit of the blues, that's all."

"Well, and I have a fit of the cheerfuls," said Mrs. Gilroy.

"What do you mean, mother?" Llewellyn was all life and spirits in a moment. "Has anything good happened; have you got another post? Are you to be made sub-editor on one of the great dailies; that, you know, is your ambition, your great pa.s.sionate ambition, little mother."

"Nothing of the kind at present, Lew, dear. I am just where I always was. I have plenty of work, and I am paid fairly well; but I have good news all the same. I will tell you afterwards. It has to do with Leslie.

It will be the finest thing in all the world for her, simply the making of her."

Llewellyn's face once more looked downcast. He did not want his mother to observe it, however, and he went slowly to the door.

"I had better let Kitty and Mabel know that you are in," he said.

He went into the little hall and shouted his sisters' names. The next moment two trim, neatly-dressed little girls, with long hair hanging down their shoulders, in dark-blue frocks and white pinafores, came tripping in.

"Mother's come," said Llewellyn; "she wants tea. Sound the gong when it is ready."

He bounded up the narrow stairs three at a time to his own special den at the top of the house. There, big, handsome, overgrown boy that he was, he shed some tears. He was ashamed of his tears; they scalded right down into his heart.

"I wish I didn't feel it so much," he said to himself. "I just had a wild hope for a moment, when mother spoke about good news, that it had something to do with me. But it's only Leslie. Well, dear old girl, why shouldn't it be about her? What a brute I am to grudge it to her. She is mother's right hand, and about the very best girl in the world. There, I shall hate myself if I give way another moment. I'll just tell mother right out, and put an end to the thing. She'll be a bit surprised, but I guess she'll be only too glad to consent. It's good-by to daydreams, that's all; but a fellow can't think of them when his mother is in the question."