premature mental excursions. Phœbe aired religious doubts.
"But little Phœbe!" said the bishop.
"Kitty," said Lady Ella, "has written a novel."
"Already!"
"With elopements in it—and all sorts of things. She's had it typed. You'd think Mary Crosshampton would know better than to let her daughter go flourishing the family imagination about in that way."
"Eleanor told you?"
"By way of showing that they think of—things in general."
The bishop reflected. "She wants to go to College."
"They want to go in a set."
"I wonder if college can be much worse than school.... She's eighteen? But I will talk to her...."
§ 10
All our children are changelings. They are perpetually fresh strangers. Every day they vanish and a new person masquerades as yesterday's child until some unexpected development betrays the cheat.
The bishop had still to learn this perennial newness of the young. He learnt it in half an hour at the end of a fatiguing day.
He went into the dining-room. He went in as carelessly as possible and smoking a cigarette. He had an
