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done less than what she did; this was certainly true. But her
necessity, all the same, had been as graceless as some physi-
cal act in a strained attitude, and she felt no desire to take
credit for her conduct. Mixed with this imperfect pride, nev-
ertheless, was a feeling of freedom which in itself was sweet
and which, as she wandered through the great city with her
ill-matched companions, occasionally throbbed into odd
demonstrations. When she walked in Kensington Gardens
she stopped the children (mainly of the poorer sort) whom
she saw playing on the grass; she asked them their names
and gave them sixpence and, when they were pretty, kissed
them. Ralph noticed these quaint charities; he noticed ev-
erything she did. One afternoon, that his companions might
pass the time, he invited them to tea in Winchester Square,
and he had the house set in order as much as possible for
their visit. There was another guest to meet them, an amia-
ble bachelor, an old friend of Ralph’s who happened to be in
town and for whom prompt commerce with Miss Stackpole
appeared to have neither difficulty nor dread. Mr. Bantling,
a stout, sleek, smiling man of forty, wonderfully dressed,
universally informed and incoherently amused, laughed
immoderately at everything Henrietta said, gave her sev-
eral cups of tea, examined in her society the bric-a-brac, of
which Ralph had a considerable collection, and afterwards,
when the host proposed they should go out into the square
and pretend it was a fete-champetre, walked round the lim-
ited enclosure several times with her and, at a dozen turns
of their talk, bounded responsive—as with a positive pas-
sion for argumentto her remarks upon the inner life.

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