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these　sinful　reptiles　in　the　first　stanzas　of　‘The　Oak　Tree’。　But　‘S’　was　nothing；　in　her　opinion；　pared　with　the　termination　‘ing’。　The　present　participle　is　the　Devil　himself；　she　thought；　now　that　we　are　in　the　place　for　believing　in　Devils。　To　evade　such　temptations　is　the　first　duty　of　the　poet；　she　concluded；　for　as　the　ear　is　the　antechamber　to　the　soul；　poetry　can　adulterate　and　destroy　more　surely　than　lust　or　gunpowder。　The　poet’s；　then；　is　the　highest　office　of　all；　she　continued。　His　words　reach　where　others　fall　short。　A　silly　song　of　Shakespeare’s　has　done　more　for　the　poor　and　the　wicked　than　all　the　preachers　and　philanthropists　in　the　world。　No　time；　no　devotion；　can　be　too　great；　therefore；　which　makes　the　vehicle　of　our　message　less　distorting。　We　must　shape　our　words　till　they　are　the　thinnest　integument　for　our　thoughts。　Thoughts　are　divine；　etc。　Thus　it　is　obvious　that　she　was　back　in　the　confines　of　her　own　religion　which　time　had　only　strengthened　in　her　absence；　and　was　rapidly　acquiring　the　intolerance　of　belief。

‘I　am　growing　up；’　she　thought；　taking　her　taper　at　last。　‘I　am　losing　some　illusions；’　she　said；　shutting　Queen　Mary’s　book；　‘perhaps　to　acquire　others；’　and　she　descended　among　the　tombs　where　the　bones　of　her　ancestors　lay。

But　even　the　bones　of　her　ancestors；　Sir　Miles；　Sir　Gervase；　and　the　rest；　had　lost　something　of　their　sanctity　since　Rustum　el　Sadi　had　waved　his　hand　that　night　in　the　Asian　mountains。　Somehow　the　fact　that　only　three　or　four　hundred　years　ago　these　skeletons　had　been　men　with　their　way　to　make　in　the　world　like　any　modern　upstart；　and　that　they　had　made　it　by　acquiring　houses　and　offices；　garters　and　ribbands；　as　any　other　upstart　does；　while　poets；　perhaps；　and　men　of　great　mind　and　breeding　had　preferred　the　quietude　of　the　country；　for　which　choice　they　paid　the　penalty　by　extreme　poverty；　and　now　hawked　broadsheets　in　the　Strand；　or　herded　sheep　in　the　fields；　filled　her　with　remorse。　She　thought　of　the　Egyptian　pyramids　and　what　bones　lie　beneath　them　as　she　stood　in　the　crypt；　and　the　vast；　empty　hills　which　lie　above　the　Sea　of　Marmara　seemed；　for　the　moment；　a　finer　dwelling–place　than　this　many–roomed　mansion　in　which　no　bed　lacked　its　quilt　and　no　silver　dish　its　silver　cover。

‘I　am　growing　up；’　she　thought；　taking　her　taper。　‘I　am　losing　my　illusions；　perhaps　to　acquire　new　ones；’　and　she　paced　down　the　long　gallery　to　her　bedroom。　It　was　a　disagreeable　process；　and　a　troublesome。　But　it　was　interesting；　amazingly；　she　thought；　stretching　her　legs　out　to　her　log　fire　（for　no　sailor　was　present）；　and　she　reviewed；　as　if　it　were　an　avenue　of　great　edifices；　the　progress　of　her　own　self　along　her　own　past。

How　she　had　loved　sound　when　she　was　a　boy；　and　thought　the　volley　of　tumultuous　syllables　from　the　lips　the　finest　of　all　poetry。　Then—it　was　the　effect　of　Sasha　and　her　disillusionment　perhaps—into　this　high　frenzy　was　let　fall　some　black　drop；　which　turned　her　rhapsody　into　sluggishness。　Slowly　there　had　opened　within　her　something　intricate　and　many–chambered；　which　one　must　take　a　torch　to　explore；　in　prose　not　verse；　and　she　remembered　how　passionately　she　had　studied　that　doctor　at　Norwich；　Browne；　whose　book　was　at　her　hand　there。　She　had　formed　here　in　solitude　after　her　affair　with　Greene；　or　tried　to　form；　for　Heaven　knows　these　growths　are　agelong　in　ing；　a　spirit　capable　of　resistance。　‘I　will　write；’　she　had　said；　‘what　I　enjoy　writing’；　and　so　had　scratched　out　twenty–six　volumes。　Yet　still；　for　all　her　travels　and　adventures　and　profound　thinkings　and　turnings　this　way　and　that；　she　was　only　in　process　of　fabrication。　What　the　future　might　bring；　Heaven　only　knew。　Change　was　incessant；　and　change　perhaps　would　never　cease。　High　battlements　of　thought；　habits　that　had　seemed　durable　as　stone；　went　down　like　shadows　at　the　touch　of　another　mind　and　left　a　naked　sky　and　fresh　stars　twinkling　in　it。　Here　she　went　to　the　window；　and　in　spite　of　the　cold　could　not　help　unlatching　it。　She　leant　out　into　the　damp　night　air。　She　heard　a　fox　bark　in　the　woods；　and　the　clutter　of　a　pheasant　trailing　through　the　branches。　She　heard　the　snow　slither　and　flop　from　the　roof　to　the　ground。　‘By　my　life；’　she　exclaimed；　‘this　is　a　thousand　times　better　than　Turkey。　Rustum；’　she　cried；　as　if　she　were　arguing　with　the　gipsy　（and　in　this　new　power　of　bearing　an　argument　in　mind　and　continuing　it　with　someone　who　was　not　there　to　contradict　she　showed　again　the　development　of　her　soul）；　‘you　were　wrong。　This　is　better　than　Turkey。　Hair；　pastry；　tobacco—of　what　odds　and　ends　are　we　pounded；’　she　said　（thinking　of　Queen　Mary’s　prayer–book）。　‘What　a　phantasmagoria　the　mind　is　and　meeting–place　of　dissemblables！　At　one　moment　we　deplore　our　birth　and　state　and　aspire　to　an　ascetic　exaltation；　the　next　we　are　overe　by　the　smell　of　some　old　garden　path　and　weep　to　hear　the　thrushes　sing。’　And　so　bewildered　as　usual　by　the　multitude　of　things　which　call　for　explanation　and　imprint　their　message　without　leaving　any　hint　as　to　their　meaning；　she　threw　her　cheroot　out　of　the　window　and　went　to　bed。

Next　morning；　in　pursuance　of　these　thoughts；　she　had　out　her　pen　and　paper。　and　started　afresh　upon　‘The　Oak　Tree’；　for　to　have　ink　and　paper　in　plenty　when　one　has　made　do　with　berries　and　margins　is　a　delight　not　to　be　conceived。　Thus　she　was　now　striking　out　a　phrase　in　the　depths　of　despair；　now　in　the　heights　of　ecstasy　writing　one　in；　when　a　shadow　darkened　the　page。　She　hastily　hid　her　manuscript。

As　her　window　gave　on　to　the　most　central　of　the　courts；　as　she　had　given　orders　that　she　would　see　no　one；　as　she　knew　no　one　and　was　herself　legally　unknown；　she　was　first　surprised　at　the　shadow；　then　indignant　at　it；　then　（when　she　looked　up　and　saw　what　caused　it）　overe　with　merriment。　For　it　was　a　familiar　shadow；　a　grotesque　shadow；　the　shadow　of　no　less　a　personage　than　the　Archduchess　Harriet　Griselda　of　Finster–Aarhorn　and　Scand–op–Boom　in　the　Roumanian　territory。　She　was　loping　across　the　court　in　her　old　black　riding–habit　and　mantle　as　before。　Not　a　hair　of　her　head　was　changed。　This　then　was　the　woman　who　had　chased　her　from　England！　This　was　the　eyrie　of　that　obscene　vulture—this　the　fatal　fowl　herself！　At　the　thought　that　she　had　fled　all　the　way　to　Turkey　to　avoid　her　seductions　（now　bee　excessively　flat）；　Orlando　laughed　aloud。　There　was　something　inexpressibly　ic　in　the　sight。　She　resembled；　as　Orlando　had　thought　before；　nothing　so　much　as　a　monstrous　hare。　She　had　the　staring　eyes；　the　lank　cheeks；　the　high　headdress　of　that　animal。　She　stopped　now；　much　as　a　hare　sits　erect　in　the　corn　when　thinking　itself　unobserved；　and　stared　at　Orlando；　who　stared　back　at　her　from　the　window。　After　they　had　stared　like　this　for　a　certain　time；　there　was　nothing　for　it　but　to　ask　her　in；　and　soon　the　two　ladies　were　exchanging　pliments　while　the　Archduchess　struck　the　snow　from　her　mantle。

‘A　plague　on　women；’　said　Orlando　to　herself；　going　to　the　cupboard　to　fetch　a　glass　of　wine；　‘they　never　leave　one　a　moment’s　peace。　A　more　ferreting；　inquisiting；　busybodying　set　of　people　don’t　exist。　It　was　to　escape　this　Maypole　that　I　left　England；　and　now’—here　she　turned　to　present　the　Archduchess　with　the　salver；　and　behold—in　her　place　stood　a　tall　gentleman　in　black。　A　heap　of　clothes　lay　in　the　fender。　She　was　alone　with　a　man。

Recalled　thus　suddenly　to　a　consciousness　of　her　sex；　which　she　had　pletely　forgotten；　and　of　his；　which　was　now　remote　enough　to　be　equally　upsetting；　Orlando　felt　seized　with　faintness。

‘La！’　she　cried；　putting　her　hand　to　her　side；　‘how　you　frighten　me！’

‘Gentle　creature；’　cried　the　Archduchess；　falling　on　one　knee　and　at　the　same　time　pressing　a　cordial　to　Orlando’s　lips；　‘forgive　me　for　the　deceit　I　have　practised　on　you！’

Orlando　sipped　the　wine　and　the　Archduke　knelt　and　kissed　her　hand。

In　short；　they　acted　the　parts　of　man　and　woman　for　ten　minutes　with　great　vigour　and　then　fell　into　natural　discourse。　The　Archduchess　（but　she　must　in　future　be　known　as　the　Archduke）　told　his　story—that　he　was　a　man　and　always　had　been　one；　that　he　had　seen　a　portrait　of　Orlando　and　fallen　hopelessly　in　love　with　him；　that　to　pass　his　ends；　he　had　dressed　as　a　woman　and　lodged　at　the　Baker’s　shop；　that　he　was　desolated　when　he　fled　to　Turkey；　that　he　had　heard　of　her　change　and　hastened　to　offer　his　services　（here　he　teed　and　heed　intolerably）。　For　to　him；　said　the　Archduke　Harry；　she　was　and　would　ever　be　the　Pink；　the　Pearl；　the　Perfection　of　her　sex。　The　three　p’s　would　have　been　more　persuasive　if　they　had　not　been　interspersed　with　tee–hees　and　haw–haws　of　the　strangest　kind。　‘If　this　is　love；’　said　Orlando　to　herself；　looking　at　the　Archduke　on　the　other　side　of　the　fender；　and　now　from　the　woman’s　point　of　view；　‘there　is　something　highly　ridiculous　about　it。’

Falling　on　his　knees；　the　Archduke　Harry　made　the　most　passionate　declaration　of　his　suit。　He　told　her　that　he　had　something　like　twenty　million　ducats　in　a　strong　box　at　his　castle。　He　had　more　acres　than　any　nobleman　in　England。　The　shooting　was　excellent：　he　could　promise　her　a　mixed　bag　of　ptarmigan　and　grouse　such　as　no　English　moor；　or　Scotch　either；　could　rival。　True；　the　pheasants　had　suffered　from　the　gape　in　his　absence；　and　the　does　had　slipped　their　young；　but　that　could　be　put　right；　and　would　be　with　her　help　when　they　lived　in　Roumania　together。

As　he　spoke；　enormous　tears　formed　in　his　rather　prominent　eyes　and　ran　down　the　sandy　tracts　of　his　long　and　lanky　cheeks。

That　men　cry　as　frequently　and　as　unreasonably　as　women；　Orlando　knew　from　her　own　experience　as　a　man；　but　she　was　beginning　to　be　aware　that　women　should　be　shocked　when　men　display　emotion　in　their　presence；　and　so；　shocked　she　was。

The　Archduke　apologized。　He　manded　himself　sufficiently　to　say　that　he　would　leave　her　now；　but　would　return　on　the　following　day　for　his　answer。

That　was　a　Tuesday。　He　came　on　Wednesday；　he　came　on　Thursday；　he　came　on　Friday；　and　he　came　on　Saturday。　It　is　true　that　each　visit　began；　continued；　or　concluded　with　a　declaration　of　love；　but　in　between　there　was　much　room　for　silence。　They　sat　on　either　side　of　the　fireplace　and　sometimes　the　Archduke　knocked　over　the　fire–irons　and　Orlando　picked　them　up　again。　Then　the　Archduke　would　bethink　him　how　he　had　shot　an　elk　in　Sweden；　and　Orlando　would　ask；　was　it　a　very　big　elk；　and　the　Archduke　would　say　that　it　was　not　as　big　as　the　reindeer　which　he　shot　in　Norway；　and　Orlando　would　ask；　had　he　ever　shot　a　tiger；　and　the　Archduke　would　say　he　had　shot　an　albatross；　and　Orlando　would　say　（half　hiding　her　yawn）　was　an　albatross　as　big　as　an　elephant；　and　the　Archduke　would　say—something　very　sensible；　no　doubt；　but　Orlando　heard　it　not；　for　she　was　looking　at　her　writing–table；　out　of　the　window；　at　the　door。　Upon　which　the　Archduke　would　say；　‘I　adore　you’；　at　the　very　same　moment　that　Orlando　said　‘Look；　it’s　beginning　to　rain’；　at　which　they　were　both　much　embarrassed；　and　blushed　scarlet；　and　could　neither　of　them　think　what　to　say　next。　Indeed；　Orlando　was　at　her　wit’s　end　what　to　talk　about　and　had　she　not　bethought　h

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