The Bohemian Girl by Frances Vernon

himself up in a dressing-gown and brood on unworthy subjects, but a wood fire makes one think – almost of noble deeds. Certainly of one’s days of youthful activity. Medieval in the very best sense, don’t you agree?’
    Mr Cornwallis, thought Angelina, had the face of an eagle and the body of an owl. He was a little too dark for her taste, but that did not matter.
    ‘I’m afraid the house is a little cold in winter, Mr Cornwallis. Many people say so, out of my hearing.’
    ‘Dear lady, you’re teasing me! I hadn’t thought you capable of such a thing – so unkind.’
    ‘I believe I have – some qualities I don’t quite know myself,’ said Lady Blentham.
    ‘How could I doubt that? But to return to Roderick, do you know, I think that when he is – master of his own parish, with a suitable little wife, he’ll settle down as a first-rate High-and-Dry man – quite of the old school, no Romish vestments, no –’
    ‘Perhaps too old a school,’ said Angelina, who enjoyed colourful ecclesiastical ritual, though only because she had a secret romantic nature. She was too young to remember the days of High-and-Dry theology, but she rather liked Cornwallis’s pretence that she belonged to a previous age, before even surplices were commonplace. She continued: ‘On the other hand, Diana is becoming quite a New Woman. Or I hope you don’t think so?’
    He rememberd quickly. ‘Oh, Newnham and Somerville! Prunes – and pine-wood, and terrible voices! Dear Lady Blentham, it must be discouraged. Naturally you won’t
allow
her to become a New Woman?’ Though his choice of words tended to be flowery, Cornwallis’s voice was always sober, soft, and unaffectedly kind.
    ‘Certainly not,’ said Angelina.
    Cornwallis removed his spectacles, polished and replaced them. ‘Diana is a most admirable girl,’ he said. ‘I should imagine that this wish of hers to go to Cambridge – distressin’ly vulgar, dear lady – is partly a wish for what she imagines would be more freedom of society, more intellectual companionship?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Lady Blentham.
    ‘She must be told how wickedly strict these women’s colleges are – far worse than school. She never went to school?’
    ‘No. I think it can do a girl nothing but harm. I hear that nowadays there are schools where the girls actually prepare for public examinations, and play cricket.’ It had not quite occurred to Angelina that women’s colleges were strict: she valued Cornwallis partly because he could make this kind of revelation.
    ‘Yes, a horrid thought. Well,’ said Cornwallis, ‘I wonder what is to be done?’
    Maud came back into the gallery, carrying a large tapestry-frame from which dangled a piece of gros-point in shades of bright blue.
    ‘Well, my dear, is your headache better?’ said her mother. ‘We were talking about Diana.’
    ‘She’s at the awkward age,’ said Maud, sitting slowly down and arranging her embroidery.
    ‘Very true,’ said Angelina, ‘but there are so many awkward ages for a woman.’
    ‘I think you should let her go to Cambridge, Mamma.’
    ‘My dear,’ sighed Lady Blentham, and turned her head towards Cornwallis. ‘Still my little rebel.’
    ‘Oh, no,’ said Maud. ‘But I remember what it was to be young and I have every sympathy with Diana.’
    ‘ You never thought of Cambridge,’ said her mother, smiling.
    ‘No.’
    ‘But Miss Maud, do you consider yourself middle-aged?’ said Cornwallis gravely.
    ‘I’m thirty.’
    ‘Hush, my dear,’ said Angelina, who believed that Maud was a little in love with Cornwallis. ‘Never mention your age! Mr Cornwallis,’ she said, ‘I want your help.’
    He was contemplating Maud’s fleshless beauty with intellectual pleasure. In a sense, Maud’s looks had improved since he first met her five years before, though she was even more thin and pale now than she had been then: for now she was a true spinster no one expected her to have the charm and colour of a nubile