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hair has been moved； not a trinket sold。 There are the same walks； the same lawns； the same trees； and the same pool； which； I dare say； has the same carp in it。 True； Queen Victoria is on the throne and not Queen Elizabeth； but what difference。。。’
No sooner had the thought taken shape； than； as if to rebuke it； the door was flung wide and in marched Basket； the butler； followed by Bartholomew； the housekeeper； to clear away tea。 Orlando； who had just dipped her pen in the ink； and was about to indite some reflection upon the eternity of all things； was much annoyed to be impeded by a blot； which spread and meandered round her pen。 It was some infirmity of the quill； she supposed； it was split or dirty。 She dipped it again。 The blot increased。 She tried to go on with what she was saying； no words came。 Next she began to decorate the blot with wings and whiskers； till it became a round–headed monster； something between a bat and a wombat。 But as for writing poetry with Basket and Bartholomew in the room； it was impossible。 No sooner had she said ‘Impossible’ than； to her astonishment and alarm； the pen began to curve and caracole with the smoothest possible fluency。 Her page was written in the neatest sloping Italian hand with the most insipid verse she had ever read in her life：
I am myself but a vile link
Amid life’s weary chain；
But I have spoken hallow’d words；
Oh； do not say in vain！
Will the young maiden； when her tears；
Alone in moonlight shine；
Tears for the absent and the loved；
Murmur—
she wrote without a stop as Bartholomew and Basket grunted and groaned about the room； mending the fire； picking up the muffins。
Again she dipped her pen and off it went：—
She was so changed； the soft carnation cloud
Once mantling o’er her cheek like that which eve
Hangs o’er the sky； glowing with roseate hue；
Had faded into paleness； broken by
Bright burning blushes； torches of the tomb；
but here； by an abrupt movement she spilt the ink ever the page and blotted it from human sight she hoped for ever。 She was all of a quiver； all of a stew。 Nothing more repulsive could be imagined than to feel the ink flowing thus in cascades of involuntary inspiration。 What had happened to her？ Was it the damp； was it Bartholomew； was it Basket； what was it？ she demanded。 But the room was empty。 No one answered her； unless the dripping of the rain in the ivy could be taken for an answer。
Meanwhile； she became conscious； as she stood at the window； of an extraordinary tingling and vibration all over her； as if she were made of a thousand wires upon which some breeze or errant fingers were playing scales。 Now her toes tingled； now her marrow。 She had the queerest sensations about the thigh bones。 Her hairs seemed to erect themselves。 Her arms sang and twanged as the telegraph wires would be singing and twanging in twenty years or so。 But all this agitation seemed at length to concentrate in her hands； and then in one hand； and then in one finger of that hand； and then finally to contract itself so that it made a ring of quivering sensibility about the second finger of the left hand。 And when she raised it to see what caused this agitation； she saw nothing—nothing but the vast solitary emerald which Queen Elizabeth had given her。 And was that not enough？ she asked。 It was of the finest water。 It was worth ten thousand pounds at least。 The vibration seemed； in the oddest way （but remember we are dealing with some of the darkest manifestations of the human soul） to say No； that is not enough； and； further； to assume a note of interrogation； as though it were asking； what did it mean； this hiatus； this strange oversight？ till poor Orlando felt positively ashamed of the second finger of her left hand without in the least knowing why。 At this moment； Bartholomew came in to ask which dress she should lay out for dinner； and Orlando； whose senses were much quickened； instantly glanced at Bartholomew’s left hand； and instantly perceived what she had never noticed before—a thick ring of rather jaundiced yellow circling the third finger where her own was bare。
‘Let me look at your ring； Bartholomew；’ she said； stretching her hand to take it。
At this； Bartholomew made as if she had been struck in the breast by a rogue。 She started back a pace or two； clenched her hand and flung it away from her with a gesture that was noble in the extreme。 ‘No；’ she said； with resolute dignity； her Ladyship might look if she pleased； but as for taking off her wedding ring； not the Archbishop nor the Pope nor Queen Victoria on her throne could force her to do that。 Her Thomas had put it on her finger twenty–five years； six months； three weeks ago； she had slept in it； worked in it； washed in it； prayed in it； and proposed to be buried in it。 In fact； Orlando understood her to say； but her voice was much broken with emotion； that it was by the gleam on her wedding ring that she would be assigned her station among the angels and its lustre would be tarnished for ever if she let it out of her keeping for a second。
‘Heaven help us；’ said Orlando； standing at the window and watching the pigeons at their pranks； ‘what a world we live in！ What a world to be sure！’ Its plexities amazed her。 It now seemed to her that the whole world was ringed with gold。 She went in to dinner。 Wedding rings abounded。 She went to church。 Wedding rings were everywhere。 She drove out。 Gold； or pinchbeck； thin； thick； plain； smooth； they glowed dully on every hand。 Rings filled the jewellers’ shops； not the flashing pastes and diamonds of Orlando’s recollection； but simple bands without a stone in them。 At the same time； she began to notice a new habit among the town people。 In the old days； one would meet a boy trifling with a girl under a hawthorn hedge frequently enough。 Orlando had flicked many a couple with the tip of her whip and laughed and passed on。 Now； all that was changed。 Couples trudged and plodded in the middle of the road indissolubly linked together。 The woman’s right hand was invariably passed through the man’s left and her fingers were firmly gripped by his。 Often it was not till the horses’ noses were on them that they budg