"Then," she said, "I insist on your coming upstairs at once. You will insult me, Mr. Arbuthnot, if you refuse."
Since she put it in that way, I was compelled to give in, however much I agreed with the old lady. When I had finished my exposition of the law, Miss Ormerod expounded some of her theories of life, with autobiographical illustrations. The fundamental theory seemed to be that a girl ought to be allowed to do anything without taking the consequences. As a deduction from this great truth, she had decided to live alone and become a London University Portia. At one time she had intended to pursue her ambitions at an Oxford college, but inquiry had revealed the fact that the girls there were still in swaddling clothes. It was only in London, and in a flat, that the true woman—she disclaimed the term new woman—could possibly realise herself. Most of her life she had spent in the country, a fact which I might have guessed. One of the main fallacies which the true woman was going to expose, and which had been intruded on her that night, was the notion that no girl could associate with a man without some foolish idea of love-making. This fallacy she denounced vigorously, and, as I thought, with a purpose. It was naturally not a conversation in which I could take much part, and I listened mostly in silence.
The situation was more unpleasant than the piano. It was hard to avoid further interviews, and at the same time I knew that I ought to do so. The little girl had contracted some diseased modern notions, and I had no business to aid and abet her. However, if she persisted in regarding it as an insult for me to do my duty, I saw no alternative but to acquiesce. I could only hope that in future she might find fewer difficulties in the law. In this hope I was disappointed. Regularly for the next fortnight the piano demanded instruction every evening, and with more and more misgiving I obeyed it. The fact was that I felt myself beginning to take a disquieting interest in her, and at the end of the fortnight I acknowledged frankly to myself that, as far as concerned me at least, her favourite fallacy had been proved true.
Matters were in this condition, and were already sufficiently complicated, when a further complication was added to them. Shortly after my arrival home one evening, a person of Hebraic appearance was shown in, who announced himself as Mr. Hart.
"Good evening," he began, greasily; "I have been consulted by Miss Prentice in regard to a rather delicate matter. Miss Prentice has, I believe, already spoken to you on the subject."
"Has she?" I inquired. "Who is Miss Prentice?"
"She is the aunt of Miss Ormerod, the young lady who lives above you," he went on. "She informs me that at her interview with you she found you—shall we say?—unreasonable."
"Well?" I said curtly, for I disliked the man.
"Now," he continued, "of course we know that Miss Ormerod, though holding these peculiar views, is a young lady possessed of a considerable fortune—not very large, but considerable."