WHITEWASH
upon the shelves, unappreciated and unread. The one true note was self-adoration. Photographs of Philippa were scattered broadcast—Philippa standing, trailing a long-stemmed rose in a well-posed hand; Philippa sitting, with her arms draped over a huge, carved "studio" chair; Philippa in evening-dress, in walking-dress, in her riding-habit, with a bulldog, an open book, a bunch of daisies, a garden-hat, and in four kinds of fancy dress. Mrs. Ford looked them over with undisguised scorn.
"How absolutely vain you are!" she said, slowly.
It was on the tip of her listener's tongue to remark on "beams and motes," but she gulped in silence. This was no time for retaliation. Her position was too insecure.
"But," the drum-major resumed, wrapping the belaced folds of her dressing-gown about her ample person, "as I said, let us look at the situation. Two things are paramount: you must own yourself mistaken about Victoria—that will be easy; and you must do it amply and fully. In that way you will win the silence of old Morris
