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； rain； sun； or thunder； could ever demolish that garish erection。 Only the noses would mottle and the trumpets would rust； but there they would remain； pointing east； west； south； and north； eternally。 She looked back as her coach swept up Constitution Hill。 Yes； there it was； still beaming placidly in a light which—she pulled her watch out of her fob—was； of course； the light of twelve o’clock mid–day。 None other could be so prosaic； so matter–of–fact； so impervious to any hint of dawn or sunset； so seemingly calculated to last for ever。 She was determined not to look again。 Already she felt the tides of her blood run sluggishly。 But what was more peculiar a blush； vivid and singular； overspread her cheeks as she passed Buckingham Palace and her eyes seemed forced by a superior power down upon her knees。 Suddenly she saw with a start that she was wearing black breeches。 She never ceased blushing till she had reached her country house； which； considering the time it takes four horses to trot thirty miles； will be taken； we hope； as a signal proof of her chastity。
Once there； she followed what had now bee the most imperious need of her nature and wrapped herself as well as she could in a damask quilt which she snatched from her bed。 She explained to the Widow Bartholomew （who had succeeded good old Grimsditch as housekeeper） that she felt chilly。
‘So do we all； m’lady；’ said the Widow； heaving a profound sigh。 ‘The walls is sweating；’ she said； with a curious； lugubrious placency； and sure enough； she had only to lay her hand on the oak panels for the finger–prints to be marked there。 The ivy had grown so profusely that many windows were now sealed up。 The kitchen was so dark that they could scarcely tell a kettle from a cullender。 A poor black cat had been mistaken for coals and shovelled on the fire。 Most of the maids were already wearing three or four red–flannel petticoats； though the month was August。
‘But is it true； m’lady；’ the good woman asked； hugging herself； while the golden crucifix heaved on her bosom； ‘that the Queen； bless her； is wearing a what d’you call it； a—；’ the good woman hesitated and blushed。
‘A crinoline；’ Orlando helped her out with it （for the word had reached Blackfriars）。 Mrs Bartholomew nodded。 The tears were already running down her cheeks； but as she wept she smiled。 For it was pleasant to weep。 Were they not all of them weak women？ wearing crinolines the better to conceal the fact； the great fact； the only fact； but； nevertheless； the deplorable fact； which every modest woman did her best to deny until denial was impossible； the fact that she was about to bear a child？ to bear fifteen or twenty children indeed； so that most of a modest woman’s life was spent； after all； in denying what； on one day at least of every year； was made obvious。
‘The muffins is keepin’ ‘ot；’ said Mrs Bartholomew； mopping up her tears； ‘in the liberry。’
And wrapped in a damask bed quilt； to a dish of muffins Orlando now sat down。
‘The muffins is keepin’ ‘ot in the liberry’—Orlando minced out the horrid cockney phrase in Mrs Bartholomew’s refined cockney accents as she drank—but no； she detested the mild fluid—her tea。 It was in this very room； she remembered； that Queen Elizabeth had stood astride the fireplace with a flagon of beer in her hand； which she suddenly dashed on the table when Lord Burghley tactlessly used the imperative instead of the subjunctive。 ‘Little man； little man；’—Orlando could hear her say—’is “must” a word to be addressed to princes？’ And down came the flagon on the table： there was the mark of it still。
But when Orlando leapt to her feet； as the mere thought of that great Queen manded； the bed quilt tripped her up； and she fell back in her arm–chair with a curse。 Tomorrow she would have to buy twenty yards or more of black bombazine； she supposed； to make a skirt。 And then （here she blushed）； she would have to buy a crinoline； and then （here she blushed） a bassite； and then another crinoline； and so on。。。The blushes came and went with the most exquisite iteration of modesty and shame imaginable。 One might see the spirit of the age blowing； now hot； now cold； upon her cheeks。 And if the spirit of the age blew a little unequally； the crinoline being blushed for before the husband； her ambiguous position must excuse her （even her sex was still in dispute） and the irregular life she had lived before。
At length the colour on her cheeks resumed its stability and it seemed as if the spirit of the age—if such indeed it were—lay dormant for a time。 Then Orlando felt in the bosom of her shirt as if for some locket or relic of lost affection； and drew out no such thing； but a roll of paper； sea–stained； blood–stained； travel–stained—the manuscript of her poem； ‘The Oak Tree’。 She had carried this about with her for so many years now； and in such hazardous circumstances； that many of the pages were stained； some were torn； while the straits she had been in for writing paper when with the gipsies； had forced her to overscore the margins and cross the lines till the manuscript looked like a piece of darning most conscientiously carried out。 She turned back to the first page and read the date； 1586； written in her own boyish hand。 She had been working at it for close three hundred years now。 It was time to make an end。 Meanwhile she began turning and dipping and reading and skipping and thinking as she read； how very little she had changed all these years。 She had been a gloomy boy； in love with death； as boys are； and then she had been amorous and florid； and then she had been sprightly and satirical； and sometimes she had tried prose and sometimes she had tried drama。 Yet through all these changes she had remained； she reflected； fundamentally the same。 She had the same brooding meditative temper； the same love of animals and nature； the same passion for the country and the seasons。
‘After all；’ she thought； getting up and going to the window； ‘nothing has changed。 The house； the garden are precisely as they were。 Not a chair has been moved； not a trinket sold。 There are the same walks； the same lawns； the same trees； a