dealt
with themes of social science. Anything that savoured of newness and boldness in
philosophic thought had a charm for her palate. She read a good deal of that
kind of literature which may be defined as specialism popularised; writing which
addresses itself to educated, but not strictly studious, persons, and which
forms the reservoir of conversation for society above the sphere of turf and
west-endism. Thus, for instance, though she could not undertake the volumes of
Herbert Spencer, she was intelligently acquainted with the tenor of their
contents; and though she had never opened one of Darwin's books, her knowledge
of his main theories and illustrations was respectable. She was becoming a
typical woman of the new time, the woman who has developed concurrently with
journalistic enterprise.
    Not many days after that conversation with Edith Carter, she had occasion to
visit Mudie's, for the new number of some periodical which contained an
appetising title. As it was a sunny and warm day she walked to New Oxford Street
from the nearest Metropolitan station. Whilst waiting at the library counter,
she heard a familiar voice in her proximity; it was that of Jasper Milvain, who
stood talking with a middle-aged lady. As Amy turned to look at him his eye met
hers; clearly he had been aware of her. The review she desired was handed to
her; she moved aside, and turned over the pages. Then Milvain walked up.
    He was armed cap-à-pie in the fashions of suave society; no Bohemianism of
garb or person, for Jasper knew he could not afford that kind of economy. On her
part, Amy was much better dressed than usual, a costume suited to her position
of bereaved heiress.
    »What a time since we met!« said Jasper, taking her delicately gloved hand
and looking into her face with his most effective smile.
    »And why?« asked Amy.
    »Indeed, I hardly know. I hope Mrs Yule is well?«
    »Quite, thank you.«
    It seemed as if he would draw back to let her pass, and so make an end of
the colloquy. But Amy, though she moved forward, added a remark:
    »I don't see your name in any of this month's magazines.«
    »I have nothing signed this month. A short review in The Current, that's
all.«
    »But I suppose you write as much as ever?«
    »Yes; but chiefly in weekly papers just now. You don't see the
Will-o'-the-Wisp