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Updated: June 5, 2025
It was all for Miss Nevill's sake, of course, but, even so, it was very pleasant, and Mrs. Hazeldine dearly loved the importance of her position.
"I hate a flirt," angrily. "This is very amusing when you know that your flirtation with Mrs. Hazeldine is a chronic disease of two years' standing!" "Pooh! mere child's play on both sides, and you know it is! You are very different; you lead a fellow on till he doesn't know whether his very soul is his own, and then you turn round and snap your fingers in his face and send him to the devil."
Already the "new beauty" had been favourably contrasted with the well-known reigning favourites; and it was the loudly expressed opinion of more than one-half of the jeunesse dorée of the day that not one of the others could "hold a candle to her, by Jove!" Mrs. Hazeldine was delighted.
Hazeldine; "for whichever of you two gentlemen does not take in Miss Nevill must go and take that eldest Miss Frampton for me." The eldest Miss Frampton is thirty-five if she is a day; she is large and bony, much given to beads and bangles, and to talking about the military men she has known, and whom she usually calls by their surnames alone, like a man.
"I am off to the museum to read," she said, "I like to get there by nine, then you don't have to wait such an age for your books; I can't bear waiting." "What are you at work upon now?" "Oh, today for the last time I am going to hunt up particulars about Livingstone. Hazeldine was very anxious that a series of papers on his life should be written for our people. What a grand fellow he was!"
Hazeldine comes in presently and finds these treasures lying in a thousand pieces upon the floor? And yet this is what she is looking forward to, as only too probable a catastrophe. Vera feels much as must have felt the owner of the proverbial bull in the crockery shop terror mingled with an overpowering sense of responsibility.
"Out of work again?" he asked. "Anything gone wrong?" "No sir," replied Hazeldine; "but I came round to ask if you'd seen that circular letter. 'Twas sent me this morning by a mate of mine who's lately gone to Longstaff, and he says that this Pogson is sowing them broadcast among the hands right through all the workshops in the place, and in all England, too, for aught he knows.
He's like the bird that rises out of its own ashes the phenix, don't they call it?" Erica smiled a little at the comparison, but sadly. "Don't judge Christianity by this one bad specimen," she said, as she shook hands with Hazeldine. "How do Christians judge us, Miss Erica?" he replied, sternly. "Then be more just than you think they are as generous as you would have them be."
It was long before she finished it, for a three-fold chorus was going on in her brain Mr. Pogson's libelous charges; the talk between her father and Hazeldine, which revealed all too plainly the harm already done to the cause of Christianity by this one unscrupulous man; and her own almost despairing cry to the Unseen: "Oh, Father!
Nevertheless, there were times when she felt so completely puzzled by his persistent adoration, that she could hardly tell what to make of it. Was he trying to make some other woman jealous? It even came into her head, once or twice, to suspect that Cissy Hazeldine was the real object of his devotion, so utterly incomprehensible did his conduct appear to her.
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