environment. In the great Airedale mansion he experienced for the
first time that ultimate triumph of civilization--a cup of tea
served in bed before breakfast, with slices of bread-and-butter
of tenuous and amazing fragile thinness. He was pleased, too,
with the deference paid him as a representative of the cloth,
even though it compelled him to a solemnity he did not inwardly
feel. But most of all, undoubtedly, he was captivated by the
loveliness and warmth of Miss Airedale.

The Bishop had not erred. Admiring the aristocratic Roman trend
of her brow and nose; the proud, inquisitive carriage of her
somewhat rectangular head, her admirable, vigorous figure and
clear topaz eyes, Gissing was aware of something he had not
experienced before--a disturbance both urgent and agreeable, in
which the intellect seemed to play little part. He was startled
by the strength of her attractiveness, amazed to learn how
pleasing it was to be in her company. She was very young and
brisk: wore clothes of a smart sporting cut, and was (he thought)
quite divine in her riding breeches. But she was also completely
devoted to the chapel, where she played the music on Sundays. She
was a volatile creature, full of mischievous surprise: at their
first music practice, after playing over some hymns on the
pipe-organ, she burst into jazz, filling the quiet grove with the
clamorous syncope of Paddy-Paws, a favourite song that summer.

So into the brilliant social life of the Airedales and their
friends he found himself suddenly pitchforked. In spite of the
oddity of the situation, and of occasional anxiety when he
considered the possibility of Mr. Poodle finding him out, he was
very happy. This was not quite what he had expected, but he was