Test Bank for Basic Environmental Technology Water Supply

Waste Management and Pollution Control 6th Edition by

Nathanson ISBN 0132840146 9780132840149
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CHAPTER 6 - DRINKING WATER PURIFICATION

Review Question Page References
(1) 129 (13) 140 (25) 146
(2) 130 (14) 140 (26) 146
(3) (15) 141 (27) 146
(4) 130-131 (16) 139 (28) 147-148
(5) 131-134 (17) 141 (29) 149
(6) 131 (18) 142 (30) 150
(7) 135 (19) 143 (31) 150
(8) 137 (20) 143-144 (32) 151
(9) 139 (21) 144 (33) 152
(10) 138 (22) 143 (34) 152-153
(11) 139 (23) 145 (35) 151-152
(12) 139 (24) 145

Solutions to Practice Problems

1. Tank volume V = π(50)2/4 x 9 x 7.48 gal/ft3 = 132,183 gal

Eq. 6-1: detention time TD = V/Q = 132,183 gal/15,000 gal/d ≈ 8.8 d
(This is an unrealistic time for practical purposes. Typical detention times are about 2 h)

2. From Eq. 6-1, V = TD x Q = 3 h x (1 d/24 h) x 10 ML/d = 1.25 ML

V = 1.25 ML = (1.25 x 106 L) x (1 m3/1000 L) = 1250 m3
SWD = 1250 m3/(10 x 25) m2 = 5 m

3. V0 = 500 gal/d ft2 x 1 ft3 /7 .48 gal = 66.8 ft/d

66.8 ft/d x 1 d/24 h x 1 h/60 m x 12 in./1ft ≈ 0.5 in./min

4. Eq. 6-1: V = TD x Q = 3 h x 2 mil gal/d x 1 d/24 h = 0.25 mil gal

V = 250,000 gal x 1 ft3 /7 .48 gal = 33,400 ft3
From Eq. 6-2: AS = Q/V = 2,000,000/800 = 2500 ft2

Since A = πD2/4, we get diameter D = √4A/π and

D = √4 X 2500/π = 56.4 ft; SWD = 33,400/2500 = 13.4 ft

5. From Eq. 6-1, V =TD x Q = 3.5 h x (1 d/24 h) x 5000 m3/d = 730 m3

From Eq. 6-2, AS = Q/V0 -5000 m3/d + 25 m/d = 200 m2
As = L x W = 2W x W = ZW 2 so that W = √200/2 = 10 m and L = 20 m
SWD =730/200 = 3.65 m, therefore depth with freeboard ≈ 4 m

6. Filter area = 10 x 15 = 150 ft2

Flow rate =1,000,000 gal/d x 1 d/24 h x 1 h/60 min = 690 gpm
Filtration rate = 690 gpm/150 ft2 = 4.6 gpm/ft2
Velocity ≈ 4.6 gal/min/ft2 x 1 ft3 /7 .48 gal = 0.62 ft/min = 7.4 in./min

7. 9,000,000 L/d x 1 d/24 h x 1 h/3600 s = 104 L/s

104 L/s ÷ 2.9 L/m2s = 35.9 m2
Side dimensions = √35.9 = 6 m

8. 10.7 L/s/m2 x 36 m2 x 10 min x 60 s/min = 231,120 L ≈ 0.231 ML

Percent of total flow for backwash: (0.231 ML/9 ML) x 100 = 2.6%

9. lb/d = 8.34 x Q x C (Equation 6-3a)

lb/d = 8.34 x 12 x 0.6 = 60 lb/d
60 lb/d x 31 d/month = 1900 Ib/month
19 of the 100 Ib cylinders are required per month
It would be more convenient to order one 1-ton cylinder per month

10. kg/d = Q x C (Equation 6-3b)

150 kg/d = 250 ML/d x C
C = 150/250 = 0.6 mg/L

11. kg/d = Q x C
Q = kg/d ÷ C = 20/0.4 = 50 ML/d
CHAPTER 7 - WATER DISTRIBUTION SYSTEMS
Review Question Page References

(1) 158 (13) 167 (25) 176

(2) 158 (14) 169 (26) 177
(3) 159 (15) 167,175 (27) 176
(4) 159 (16) 169 (28) 179
(5) 160 (17) 168 (29) 179
(6) 160 (18) 170 (30) 181
(7) 160 (19) 168
(8) 161,2 (20) 170
(9) 163 (21) 171
(10) 165 (22) 173
(11) 165 (23) 175
(12) 166 (24) 175

Solutions to Practice Problems

1. 52,500 people x 180 gal/person/d = 9,450,000 ≈ 9.5 mgd

52,500 people x 670 L/person/d = 35 175 000 L ≈ 35 ML/d

2. Peak hourly flow ≈ 35 ML/d x 2 x 4 x 1 d/24 h x 1 h/3600 s ≈ 3200 L/s

3. N = 240/6 = 40 joints
From Eq. 7-1, QL= (40 x 600 x 10000.05)/32,600 = 23 L/h allowable leakage is exceeded by
100 -23 = 77 L/h

4. F = 2 x P x A x sin(Δ/2): F = 2 x 600x(πx0.3052/4)xsin(90/2) = 62 kN
(Above: Eq. 7-2). Since P = F/A, 100 kN/m2 = (62 kN)/A and A = 0.62 m2

5. From Eq. 7-3 & 7-4: Q2 = Q1 x (N2/N1) = 500 x (2500/2000) = 625 gpm
H2 = H1 x (N22/N12) = 100 x 25002/20002) = 156 ft

6. Tabulation for system head curve, Using Fig. 2.15, with friction head loss hL = S x L
and TDH = hL + static head:

Q, gpm S, ft/ft hL ,ft. TDH, ft

0 0.0000 0 150
200 0.0005 5 155
400 0.0020 21 171
600 0.0010 12 192
800 0.0065 69 219
 1000 0.0100 106 256
Plot a graph of Q vs. TDH: from the intersection of the pump curve and the system
curve, the operating point for the pump in this system is seen to be approximately Q
= 500 gpm @ TDH = 180 ft.

7. From Intersection of the pump curve (for parallel operation) and the system curve,
the operating point In the system is Q=610 gpm @ TDH = 195 ft

8. Tabulation for system head curve, using Fig. 2.15, with friction head loss hL = S x L
and TDH = hL + static head:
 From intersection of the pump curve (for parallel operation) and the system curve, the
operating point in the system is: Q = 185 L/s @ TDH = 27 m. If the TDH is increased to 30
m by throttling a discharge valve, pump B would deliver 110 L/s; 30 m exceeds the shutoff
head of pump A.

9. Pout = Q x TDH/3960 (Eq. 7-7)

Pout = 500 x 180/3960 ≈ 23 hp
Efficiency = (Pout/Pin) x 100 (Eq. 7-5)
75 = (23Pin) x 100, and Pin ≈ 30 hp

10. Pout = 9.8 x Q x TDH (Eq. 7-6)

Q = 185 L/s x 1 m3/1000L = 0.185m3/s
Pout = 9.8 x 0.185 x 27 = 49kW
efficiency = (49/75) x 100 = 65 percent

11. Equalizing storage: 32,000 people x 500 L/d/person x 0.20 = 3.2 ML

Fire storage: 60 L/s x 4 h x 3600 s/1h = 0.864 ML
Total distribution storage = 3.2 + 0.684 ≈ 4ML

12. Pressure loss from the pump station to withdrawal point A is 100 kpa; the
equivalent pressure head loss is 0.1 x 100 = 10m. The slope of the hydraulic grade
Iine S = 10 m/2000 m = 0.005. From Figure 2-15, with S = 0.005 and D = 250 mm, Q
= 42 L/s. The pressure head at A Is 0.1 x 250 kPa = 25 m, and the head loss from A
to the tank is 25 -20 = 5 m. The slope of the HGL is S = 5 m/500 m = 0.01, with
flow occurring from A toward the tank (the direction of the sloping HGL.) From Figure 2.15,
with S = 0.01 and D = 200 mm, the tank is filling at a rate of Q = 34 L/s; since 42 L/s is
flowing from the pump toward point A, and 34 L/s is flowing from A to the tank, the
difference of 42 -34 = 8 L/s is being withdrawn at point A

13. Assume Q = 50 L/s; use the nomograph in Figure 2.15.

hAB = S x L = 0.0007 x 1200 = 0.84 m
hBC = S x L = 0.003 x 400 = 1.2 m
hCD = S x L = 0.020 x 400 = 8.0 m
hAD = 0.84 + 1.2 + 8.0= 10m
S = 10 m/2000 m = 0.005
From Figure 2.15, with S = 0.005 and a = 50 L/s, D = 260 mm
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Title: The adventurous lady

Author: J. C. Snaith

Release date: October 30, 2022 [eBook #69271]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: D. Appleton and Company, 1920

Credits: D A Alexander and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at

https://www.pgdp.net (This book was created from images of
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Toronto Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE

ADVENTUROUS LADY ***
The transcriber has created the cover image and placed it in the public domain.

The ADVENTUROUS LADY

 By
J. C. SNAITH
The Adventurous Lady
The Undefeated
The Sailor
The Time Spirit
The Coming
Anne Feversham

These Are Appleton Books

D. APPLETON & COMPANY

Publishers New York
 The
ADVENTUROUS LADY
BY
J. C. SNAITH
AUTHOR OF “THE UNDEFEATED,” “THE SAILOR,”
“BROKE OF COVENDEN”

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

NEW YORK MCMXX
 COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

 The
ADVENTUROUS LADY

I
Pterribleandcrush
her blessings were flowing already. All the same there was a
at Belgravia. The congestion of passengers and their
luggage at the terminus of the B. S. W. was enough to daunt the stoutest
heart, but a girl in a sealskin coat with a skunk collar standing at the
bookstall on Platform Three was as calm and collected as if the war was
still going on. Outwardly at least she made no concession to the fact that
the Armistice had been signed three days.
She chose some newspapers and magazines and paid for them with
an air that almost treated money with the disdain it reserved for
literature. Then she moved towards a figure of sombre dignity standing
between the barrier and herself.
“Come on, Pikey,” she said.
A tall, griffin-like woman, craggy of feature but almost oppressively
respectable, followed her mistress dourly. The duenna carried a large,
queer-shaped, rather disreputable-looking dressing case whose faded
purple cover was adorned with a coronet. As their tickets were franked at
the barrier, these ladies were informed that “All stations beyond Exeter”
were up on the right.
In spite of such clear and explicit instructions, it was not easy to get
to all the stations beyond Exeter. Platform Three was a maelstrom of
almost every known community. There were Italians and Serbians,
Welshmen and such men, Japanese sailors and turbaned Hindoos; the
personal suite of President Masaryk; Tommies and poilus; American tars
and doughboys; British and Colonial officers, their kit and
appurtenances; and over and above all these were the members of the
traveling public which in other days had kept the railways running and
had paid the shareholders their dividends.
A cool head and a firm will were needed to get as far as the stations
beyond Exeter. And these undoubtedly belonged to the girl in the fur
coat. Her course was slow but it was calm and sure. With rare fixity of
will she pursued it despite the peace that had come so suddenly upon the
world. It was a very long train, but she was in no hurry nor did she betray
the least anxiety, although somewhere about the middle—Salisbury and
Devizes only—she cast a half-glance back to say to her companion, “I
don’t see our porter, Pikey.”
To utter the word “porter” just then was either bravado or it was
inhuman optimism. But the act of faith was justified by the event, for
hardly had the lady of the fur coat made the remark when a figure in
corduroys almost miraculously emerged from the welter. Both travelers
had a doubt at first as to whether this rare bird was Trotsky himself or
merely a Sinn Fein delegate to the Peace Conference, so aloof yet so
grim was his manner. But at that moment there seemed to be no other
porter on Platform Three—it followed, therefore, that their porter it must
be.
It was rather providential perhaps that the porter had been able to
find them, but he was by way of being a connoisseur in the human
female. He had not been employed at Belgravia for thirty-five years
without learning to sort out the various ranks and grades of a
heterogeneous society. As a matter of fact, there were only two grades of
society for Mr. Trotsky. One grade was worth while, the other was not.
The progress of the party up Platform Three to all the stations beyond
Exeter was slow but, like fate, it was inevitable. They walked through,
over and beyond armed representatives of five continents, nursemaids
with babies and perambulators, not to mention remarkable women with
remarkable dogs, trolleys and milk cans and piles of luggage, until at last
they reached a compartment not far from the engine. It was notable for
the fact that it was two-thirds empty. Rugs, umbrellas and minor
portmanteaux claimed the unoccupied seats; those remaining were
adorned by two distinguished-looking gentlemen who, however, were
reading The Times newspaper with an assiduity that definitely and finally
dissociated them from Mr. Trotsky and party.
The lady of the fur coat was in the act of opening her purse at the
carriage door when a wild, weak voice said, excitedly, “Oh, porter, can
you find me a place—please?”
On instinct Mr. Trotsky disregarded the appeal. There was frenzy in
it; and that fact alone made any examination of the overburdened, rather
hunted little creature at his elbow unnecessary. Dark fate itself could not
have turned a deafer ear than he.
“People are standing in all the thirds.” The piping, rather piteous
little note grew more insistent. “I can’t stand all the way to Clavering, St.
Mary’s.”
“Not be so full after Reading,” said the laconic Mr. Trotsky, coldly
accepting a substantial tip for services rendered.
“But—but there’s no place for my luggage.”
As Miss Fur Coat closed her bag she observed that a rather pretty
gray-eyed mouse of a thing bearing a large wickerwork arrangement in
one hand and an umbrella and a pilgrim basket in the other was standing
at bay. She was literally standing at bay.
“There is room here, I believe.” The air of Miss Fur Coat was
cautious and detached, but not unfriendly.
“But this is a first,” said Miss Gray Eyes, “and I have only a third-
class ticket.”
“But if there’s no room?” Miss Fur Coat turned a gesture of
immensely practical calm upon Mr. Trotsky.
“Better get in, I should think.” The servant of the railway company
made the concession to the two honest half-crowns in his palm.
“Inspector’ll be along in a minute. Talk to him.”
Mr. Trotsky, having done his duty to the public, turned augustly on
his heel to make a private and independent examination of the engine.
His advice, however, in the sight of the third-class passenger, seemed
sound enough to put into practice. Or, perhaps, it would be more just to
say that the other lady put it in practice for her. Miss Fur Coat was
curiously quiet and unhurried in all her movements. She was absolutely
cool, physically and mentally cool, in spite of the temperature of
Platform Three and the mass of fur round her neck, whereas poor little
Miss Gray Eyes could hardly breathe in her thin green ulster. And the
slow-moving will of Miss Fur Coat had an almost dangerous momentum.
Before the third class passenger realized what had happened, she had
been taken charge of.
“Go first, Pikey. Clear a seat for this lady.”
 Slightly Olympian if you like, but tremendously effective. Pikey,
who looked fully capable of swallowing Miss Gray Eyes whole with a
single motion of her large and powerful jaws, entered the carriage, and
calmly and competently transferred a plaid traveling rug and a leather-
handled umbrella from one seat to the next.
“Thank you so much—thank you ever so much,” twittered the lady
of the green ulster, at the same time inadvertently barging the end of the
pilgrim basket into the middle of the middle prices on page eight of the
Times newspaper.
A patient jobber from the oil market, en route to Croome Lodge for
an hour’s golf, looked gently at the green ulster, looked at it less in anger
than in divine resignation, over the top of his tortoise-shell pince-nez.
One had to rub shoulders with all sorts of queer people these times! Still
the Armistice was signed and Burmahs were up another half crown.
“This train is already twelve minutes late.” Miss Fur Coat announced
the fact after a glance at almost the last thing in wrist watches on almost
the last thing in wrists, and then assumed the best seat in the
compartment, the one next the door with the back to the engine.
The tortoise-shell pince-nez peered over the top of Court and Society
on page six. It looked slowly up and down Miss Fur Coat and then
transferred an expert gaze to Pikey and the other lady. Before the head
office could register any conclusion on a matter which really did not call
for comment, a message was received from another department to ask
what price Shells had closed at. And there for the time being the incident
ended as far as the Oil Market was concerned—ended almost before it
began. For nothing whatever had happened, so it really did not amount to
an incident. All the same, something was about to happen.
 II
T Inspector came along to look at the tickets.
“You must either pay excess or change into a third,” he said firmly at
the sight of the third class ticket.
“But there’s no room,” its owner faltered. It is a phrase no longer in
vogue in the best novels, but the little lady of the green ulster was of the
faltering type.
“Plenty of room presently.” So firm was the Inspector he might have
been Marshal Foch himself. “Meantime you must find a place
somewhere else.”
At this cruel mandate the little lady shivered under her bright thin
garment.
“How much—how much is there to pay?” It was mere desperation.
There were only a few—a very few shillings in her purse. All her
available capital had been put into the green ulster and the new serge suit
she was wearing and a black felt hat with a neat green ribbon. But to be
torn out of that haven of refuge, to be flung again, bag and baggage, into
the maelstrom of Platform Three—the thought was paralyzing.
The Inspector condescended to look again at the third-class ticket.
“Clavering St. Mary’s. There’ll be twenty-one and six-pence excess.”
Miss Gray Eyes wilted visibly.
“I can’t stand here all day,” announced the Inspector. “This train was
due out a quarter of an hour ago.”
“But—” faltered the unlucky passenger.
“You’ll have to come out and find room lower down.”
At this point a slow, cool, rather cautious voice said “Inspector.”
“Madam?” It was a decidedly imperative “madam.”
“If there is no room in the third-class compartments this lady is
allowed a seat here, isn’t she?”
“There is room—if she’ll take the trouble to look for it.”
 “She says there isn’t.” If anything the voice of Miss Fur Coat had
grown slower and cooler.
“I say there is.” The Inspector knew he was addressing a bona fide
first-class passenger, all the same he was terribly inspectorial.
“Well perhaps you’ll find it for her.” The considered coolness was
almost uncanny. “And then, perhaps, you’ll come back and show her
where it is.”
The Inspector was obviously a little stunned by Miss Fur Coat’s
suggestion, but he managed to blurt out, “And what about the train in the
meantime?” Then he went for Miss Green Ulster with a truculence that
verged on savagery. “Come on, madam. Come on out.”
“I don’t think I’d move if I were you.” The manner of the other lady
was quite impersonal.
“Very well, then,”—the Inspector produced a portentous looking
notebook—“I must have your name and address.”
It is quite certain that Miss Gray Eyes would have yielded to this
awful threat of legal proceedings to follow had it not been for the further
intervention of the good fairy or the evil genius opposite.
“You had better take mine, Inspector.” The voice was really
inimitable. “My father, I believe, is a director of your company.”
Miss Fur Coat knew that her father was a director of a railway
company. She didn’t know the name of it, nor did she know the name of
the company by which she was traveling, nor was she a student of Hegel,
or for that matter of any other philosopher, but there really seemed no
reason at that moment why they should not be one and the same.
The Inspector turned to confront the occupant of the corner seat. It
would be an abuse of language to say that he turned deferentially, but
somehow his notebook and pencil certainly looked a shade less truculent.
“I had better give you a card.” It was almost the voice of a dreamer,
yet the dry precision was really inimitable. “Pikey,”—she addressed the
lady opposite—“you have some cards?”
The duenna opened the queer-shaped dressing bag with an air of
stern disapproval. At the top was a small leather case which she handed
to her mistress.
 “Inspector, this is my mother’s card. My father is Lord Carabbas.
That is my name”—a neatly gloved finger indicated the middle—“Lady
Elfreda Catkin.” She pronounced the name very slowly and distinctly
and with a care that seemed to give it really remarkable importance.
The Inspector glanced at the card. Then he glanced at Lady Elfreda.
He made no comment. All the same a subtle change came over him. It
was hard to define, but it seemed to soften, almost to humanize him.
Finally it culminated in an abrupt withdrawal from the compartment with
a slight raising of the hat.
Before the train started, which in the course of the next three minutes
it reluctantly did, the guard came and locked the carriage door.
England ranks as a democratic country, but the fact that a daughter of
the Marquis of Carabbas was sitting in the left-hand corner, with her
back to the engine, lent somehow a quality to the atmosphere of the
compartment which would hardly have been there had its locale been the
rolling stock of the Tahiti Great Western or the Timbuctoo Grand Trunk.
At any rate two diligent students of The Times newspaper peered
solemnly at each other over the top of their favorite journal. Both lived in
Eaton Place, they had belonged for years to the same clubs, they were
known to each other perfectly well by sight but they jobbed in different
markets; therefore they had yet to speak their first word to each other—
for no better reason than that he who spoke first would have to make
some little sacrifice of personal dignity in order to do so.
Now, of course, was not the moment to break the habit of years, but
if their solemn eyes meant anything their minds held but a single
thought. Carabbas himself did not cut much ice in the City, but if he was
joining the board of the B. S. W. it meant that the astute Angora
connection was coming into Home Rails, in which case purely as a
matter of academic interest, there would be no harm in turning to page
fifteen in order to look at the price of B. S. W. First Preferred Stock.
That was all the incident meant to these Olympians, just that and
nothing more. But for the little lady of the green ulster it was of wholly
different portent. When shortly after nine o’clock that morning she had
left the home of her fathers in the modest suburb of Laxton she had not
dreamt that before midday she would find herself under the personal
protection of the daughter of a marquis. It was her good fortune to be
living in the golden age of democracy, but...!
 She stole a covert glance at the fur coat opposite. Such a garment in
itself was no longer a mark of caste, but this was rather a special affair, a
sealskin with a skunk collar, so simple, so unpretending that it needed
almost the glance of an expert to tell that it had cost a great deal of
money. Then she glanced at the hat above it, a plain black velour with a
twist of skunk round it, then down at the neat—the adorably neat!—
shoes, and then very shyly up again to their wearer. But their wearer was
holding the Society Pictorial in front of her, and in the opinion of the
third class passenger it was, perhaps, just as well that she was. Otherwise
she could hardly have failed to read what was passing in the mind of the
Lady of Laxton. She must have seen something of the envy and the awe,
of the eager, the too-eager interest which all the care in the world could
not veil.
Miss Gray Eyes knew and felt she was a little snob, a mean and
rather vulgar little snob in the presence of Miss Puss-in-the-Corner, the
tip of whose decisive chin was just visible between her paper and her
rich fur collar.
What must it feel like to be the daughter of a marquis? A crude and
silly inner self put the question. A daughter of a marquis is just like
anybody else’s daughter—the answer came pat, but somehow at that
moment the third class passenger was unable to accept it. A gulf yawned
between herself and the girl opposite. They were of an age; their heights
and their proportions were nearly identical; at a first glance they might
almost have passed for sisters except that Miss Gray Eyes was quite sure
in her heart that she was the prettier; all the same there was a world of
difference in the way they looked at life and a whole cosmos in the way
life looked at them.
The little lady sighed at her thoughts—they were hard thoughts—and
opened her pilgrim basket. She took from it a notebook and pencil and a
dog-eared copy of The Patrician, the famous novel of Mr. John
Galsworthy, which bore the imprint of the Laxton Cube Library. For two
years past she had prescribed for herself a course of the best modern
English fiction. She was reading it diligently, less for relaxation and
human enjoyment than for purposes of self improvement. Her social
opportunities had been few and narrow, although her parents had rather
ambitiously given her an education excellent of its kind at the Laxton
High School for Young Ladies, which she had been able to supplement
by passing the Oxford Preliminary Examination.
 For the second time in her life of twenty years Miss Cass—she was
known to her friends as Girlie Cass—had taken a situation as a nursery
governess. She had had one brief experience which had been terminated
by her mother’s illness and death. Since then she had been three months
a government clerk, but she was not quick at figures and she couldn’t
write shorthand. Life as a nursery governess was not going to be a bed of
roses for one as shy and sensitive as herself, but she was genuinely fond
of young children and somehow such a career with all its thorns seemed
more suited to one of her disposition than a stand-up fight in the peace
that was coming with terribly efficient competitors, who, if they
happened to want your particular piece of cake, would have no scruples
about knocking you down and trampling upon your prostrate body in
order to get it.
If Miss Cass had any taint of vanity it was centered in the fact that
she was by way of being a high-brow. She was not a high-brow of the
breed that looks and dresses and acts and thinks the part. In her case it
was more a secret sin than anything and it took the form of competing
week by week in the literary competition of the Saturday Sentinel, under
the “nom de plume” of Vera.
The subject this week was the “Influence of Mr. John Galsworthy
upon the English Novel.” It was, perhaps, a little advanced for the
Laxton Cube Library, but Vera was ambitious. She had not yet won a
prize, truth to tell she had not even been in sight of one, but three weeks
ago her essay on Jane Eyre had been commended as showing insight.
She had not yet got over her excitement at receiving a compliment which
in her heart she felt she fully merited. If she plumed herself upon
anything it was upon her insight. One day when she had learned a little
more about life—her trouble was that she had so little invention—she
might even try to write a novel herself. But in her case it would have to
be based on first-hand experience. She would not be able, like the Brontë
Sisters, to weave a romance out of her inner consciousness.
“The Influence of Mr. John Galsworthy upon the English Novel.”
Miss Cass had the bad habit of sucking her pencil, but it was not easy to
marshal or to set down one’s thoughts with the train converging upon
Reading at forty miles an hour. However, she was able to write the
heading quite legibly. But then her difficulties began. What exactly was
the influence of Mr. John Galsworthy upon the English novel?
 “Pikey.” It was almost the nicest voice Miss Gray Eyes had ever
heard, yet curiously low and penetrating in quality. “Do you recognize
that?” Miss Fur Coat folded back a page of her paper to display a
photograph of a famous beauty. “Rather flattering, don’t you think?”
Pikey lowered The Queen, which she had been studying with a kind
of latent ferocity, and exchanged periodicals without comment. She was
evidently a creature of very few words, and to judge by a certain morose
dignity it seemed to argue considerable hardihood on the part of anyone
to address her at all familiarly.
Miss Cass could not help wondering what the status was of this
duenna who seemed a cross between a lady’s maid and a werewolf. But
the chain of her reflections was interrupted by the stopping of the train at
a station of which she could not see the name. Here the two gentlemen
got out, after one of them had lowered the window and had called to an
official to unlock the door. And in the order of their going the student of
The Patrician noticed that while neither of them showed any particular
concern for the green ulster, both were very careful not to tread upon the
fur coat.
 III
Ttrainthree ladies now had the carriage to themselves. As soon as the
had moved out of the station, Lady Elfreda discarded The Queen
and said, “What have you brought for luncheon, Pikey?”
The Society Pictorial was laid aside while Pikey came resolutely to
grips with an interesting looking case which had been placed on a vacant
seat. In the meantime the blessed word “luncheon” had brought a pang to
the heart of Miss Cass. On leaving her home that morning it had been her
intention to procure some food en route. Alas, the difficulties of
metropolitan travel, the irregularity of ’bus and train culminating in a
bear fight at Belgravia, had driven all minor matters out of a head that
was not very strong in practical affairs. Therefore it was now the part of
Miss Gray Eyes to regard wistfully, from behind her book, the disclosure
of the contents of the luncheon basket. Certainly it was quite in the
tradition of a marquis’ daughter. There was a place for everything and
everything was in its place: delicious looking sandwiches in neat tins, a
cake which for war time could only be described as royal, and crowning
glory and wonder, a large bottle of wine most artfully packed with
glasses and corkscrew complete.
Lady Elfreda shed one neat glove with a very businesslike air and
offered the contents of the tins. “Those are egg, Pikey—and these are
ham, I think.”
The choice of Pikey was ham. The younger lady inserted a very level
row of teeth into the other kind. “Considerin’,” she remarked with
obvious satisfaction, “that these left Ireland at midnight they have stood
the journey pretty well.”
But the Werewolf was too busy to attempt any form of conversation.
Behind The Patrician, now rigidly fixed as a barrier, the mouth of
Miss Cass was watering. Within her was the emotion of sinking which
marks the sense of zero. It was a terribly long journey to Clavering St.
Mary’s. The train was not due in until after four. If only she had provided
herself with a piece of chocolate! At the next stopping place, perhaps,
she might be able to get something, but it was by no means a certainty,
having regard to the length of the train and the present time of famine.
 Suddenly Miss Cass was driven clean out of her dismal reflections. A
voice of irresistible charm was addressing her. “Won’t you have one of
these?” Both tins were offered. “Ham—and those are egg.”
Miss Cash blushed and hesitated. There was not the slightest need to
do either, but it was her nature to blush and to hesitate, and there is no
appeal from nature. A pair of eyes, very blue, very clear and only very
slightly ironical looked straight into hers. “Do.” The voice was
extraordinarily kind. “Please!—won’t you?”
It would have called for a heart of stone to resist such an appeal.
Besides, there was no need to resist it.
“Oh, thank you ever so much.” A small piece of paper was laid
reverently upon The Patrician and a delicious looking egg sandwich was
laid with similar reverence upon it. Then a white woolen glove was
carefully removed.
The flavor of the sandwich was quite equal to its appearance. But it
was a mere prelude to the repast. There was a profusion of excellent
things, not a vulgar or ostentatious profusion, but the case had come
from a land flowing with milk and honey. Miss Cass was firmly required
to do her part with both kinds of sandwiches—dreams of sandwiches
they were!—alluring biscuits and rich, almond-studded cake. Above all
—and to be perfectly frank there would be no story without it—she was
compelled to drink honest measure of a generous and full-bodied wine.
The sombre eyes of Pikey glistened when she took this royal vintage
out of its improvised cradle and held it up to the light. “Herself said it
would be good on the journey,” she announced.
“I know you are clever with corkscrews, Pikey,” said Lady Elfreda,
handing the implement persuasively.
Pikey was very clever indeed with corkscrews if her present
performance was anything to go by.
“Be very ca-re-ful how you pour it out.” Such words were
superfluous, which Lady Elfreda well knew; in point of fact, they were a
mere concession to the famous cellar of Castle Carabbas, for Pikey
showed herself a past mistress in the art of decanting a great wine under
trying conditions.
“Clever Pikey!”
 Clever enough. The Werewolf had not dwelt from babyhood at Castle
Carabbas and brought up half a dozen members of the Family without
acquiring knowledge which in some quarters was rated highly.
When she had delicately filled the tumbler to two-thirds of its
capacity she handed it to her mistress with something of the air of
sovereign pontiff. But to Pikey’s cold disgust that Irresponsible offered it
to the lady of the green ulster. Nay, she did more than offer it. She
pressed it upon the almost too obvious third-class passenger with a
cunning that made resistance almost impossible.
“Do—please! You have such a long journey.” The blue eyes were
smiling. “It will do you so much good.” The tone was charming entreaty.
“But—but!” faltered Miss Cass.
“There is a great deal more than we shall require. It is quite a large
bottle.” That statement was very true. It was a decidedly large bottle.
The Dragon scowled over the fur clad shoulder of her mistress,
whom she would willingly have slain. Nevertheless Miss Cass had to
yield to force majeure.
“Those plain round biscuits are strongly recommended. They make
an excellent combination”—clever old Pikey to have thought of those!
—“You see, there is any amount—far more than we shall want.”
Resistance was vain. Miss Gray Eyes accepted a plain round biscuit
and then she drank of the full-bodied wine from the famous cellar of
Castle Carabbas.
“This is for you and me, Pikey.” The Dragon, a figure of grim
disapproval, had charged the one remaining tumbler. “You must have the
first drink. That is your side of the Atlantic,” Lady Elfreda humorously
drew an imaginary line across the mouth of the tumbler. “This is my
side.”
Pikey drank. But her nose was so long that it seemed to stretch from
Queenstown to Old Point Comfort.
Yes, a great wine, as none knew better than Pikey. She could not bear
to see it wasted on Miss No-Class. If Pikey’s will had prevailed it would
have choked the lady of the green ulster. What right had she to be
drinking it, much less to be having a tumbler to herself?
 Who knows what imprisoned genius lurked in that magic bottle from
the cellar of Castle Carabbas? Miss Cass had never had such a meal. A
modest repast, if you like, yet full of a peculiar virtue. Her thoughts
began to fly round, her blood to course quicker; imprisoned forces were
unsealed in her brain; phrases, ideas began to shape themselves. The
moment with its pains and its fears began to press less heavily. Suddenly
she became free of a great kingdom that her dreams had hinted at.
Suppose—entrancing supposition!—she were not an obscure, timid
little governess at all, but the daughter of a marquis. She could have
looked the part anyway; that was to say, had she been privileged to wear
the clothes of the lady opposite she could have made an equally good
showing. Privately she felt that with an equal chance she would have
made a better. At any rate, if a glass could be depended on, her eyes,
which were her chief asset, a rather curious gray, would have gone
extremely well with that beautiful skunk collar.
Miss Cass grasped her pencil with a confidence she had never felt
before. “The great charm of Mr. Galsworthy’s novels, which they share
with the novels of Mr. H. G. Bennett and Mr. Arnold Wells——”
... “This is quite a large bottle, Pikey.”
The eyes of the Dragon glistened ... as if she didn’t know the size of
the bottle!
... “You must do your share.” The tumbler was replenished.
That which slept in the royal vintage was known only to the Genie
whose happy task it was to stage manage this tiny fragment of the human
comedy. For the little Catkin lady, after a second modest recourse to the
glass, also began to sit up and take notice. She, too, began to look at the
world with other eyes.
Suppose one was little Miss Rabbit opposite? How must the world
appear when you wear cheap clothes and you carry your own luggage
and you have all suburbia upon your eyebrows? Rather nice eyes,
though, by the way. What was the book she was studying? Part of some
very difficult examination evidently, to judge by the way the poor hunted
little mouse was biting her pencil....
Governess, obviously ... of sorts. What must it be like to get one’s
living as a governess? How must it seem to be bored and bullied and
snubbed by total strangers for the sake of a few pounds a year? Still in
some ways even that mode of life might offer advantages. At any rate
one might be able to call one’s soul—one’s real soul—one’s own. If you
were an obscure little governess whom nobody cared twopence about,
you could do as you liked in the big things, even if the small things did
as they liked with you.
There must have been a powerful Genius lurking in that famous
bottle, for the ears of Lady Elfreda had begun to tingle with resentment.
She remembered that she was an unmarried daughter of a cynical father
and a selfish mother. Four of her sisters had been sacrificed on the altar
of money. And if the present journey into an unknown country meant
anything it was her turn now.
With a pang that was almost agony she searched for and read again
her mother’s letter.
Castle Carabbas,
Friday.
Dearest E:
I hope you will have a pleasant time at Clavering St.
Mary’s. The D. says you may find the host and hostess
rather crude, but otherwise very respectable, nice people.
He is on several Boards with your father. You are not
likely to have met any of your fellow guests, but no doubt
you will find them quite agreeable. And in any case you
must bear in mind that you are giving your services for a
noble cause. I hear from Mabel that last week you had
quite a success in “The Duke of Killiecrankie.” The D.
says that if everything else fails you will be able to come
out as a star!!!
By the way, one of the new Peers will be included in
the house party. He is what the D. calls “a Lloyd-George
Particular,” all the same, he says, he is quite a good
fellow. He has made his money rather suddenly, but from
what one hears he is extremely wealthy. And that is
something to bear in mind with things so black over here
and the outlook for land so uncertain.
The only people you are likely to know are our old
friends the Lancelots who live in the neighborhood.
 Perhaps you may get out one day to see them.
As you will be among strangers I am sending Pikey to
look after you. And “under the rose” she is bringing a
bottle of the D.’s choicest Chateau Briault as you may be a
little run down after your recent Labors in the cause of
charity. If you are bored with your present task you must
remember that you are giving your services for St.
Aidan’s. Much love,
Your affectionate mother,
C C .
P. S.: The D. says the new Peer has at least £60,000 a
year.
A second reading of this letter filled Elfreda with fury. Somehow it
was so typical of her mother; of the mother who was a curious mixture of
kindness, naïveté and cupidity; of the mother who cared for them all so
much in small things and so little in great ones. Behind these careless
phrases of Lady Carabbas her youngest daughter read her intentions only
too clearly.
As Elfreda sat back in her corner and turned things over in her mind
a kind of cold rage began to dominate her. Had she been left any choice
in the matter she would not be going to Clavering St. Mary’s at all. No
one she knew would be there. But she had not been consulted. Her
autocratic father had promised one of his friends “in the city” that she
should go down there and take part in some private theatricals in aid of a
war charity. For nearly a year now she had been living in London with a
married sister and working for the V. A. D. at one of the hospitals, but
from time to time she had taken part in various entertainments with
considerable success.
The play in which at decidedly short notice she had been called upon
to enact no less a rôle than that of the heroine was called “The Lady of
Laxton.” It was the work of an enthusiastic amateur whose chief claim to
distinction, literary or otherwise, was of the kind that attends the
possession of a baronetcy. She was to be a governess masquerading as a
girl of position. Not only was the part very long and difficult to learn, but
in the opinion of Elfreda it was pointless, silly and vulgar.
 To make matters worse she had yet to meet the author of the piece,
but he was known to several of her sisters with whom he was by no
means persona gratissima. However, with a fulsome letter, he had
proudly sent her a copy of the piece to which he evidently attached
considerable value; and at that moment it was in the traveling bag by her
side. Resentfully she took it out and began to study it again. In her
present frame of mind, made much worse by her mother’s letter, the task
seemed even less congenial than it had done at first. “I simply can’t act
such rubbish” was the thought that dominated her.
It was surely too bad to force her into such a position. She dug her
teeth into an uncompromising upper lip. Charity excused everything
nowadays, but the more she examined the situation she was in, the less
she liked it. Beneath the armor of stern self-discipline with which she
faced the world were strong feelings, and these flamed suddenly forth
into violent antipathy. Surely it was too bad to be let in for a thing of this
kind! And she would be among strangers, with as far as she knew, not
one solitary friend to help her out.
Her eyes with little darts of anger in them strayed to the girl opposite.
Miss Cass was sucking her pencil again in the process of thought, her
gaze was fixed on vacancy and she was frowning fiercely. Evidently a
very difficult subject she was studying. But, judging by the color in her
cheeks, she was the better for her meal.
Elfreda was rather inclined to envy this girl. She could call her soul
her own at any rate, even if her bread and butter depended on the
overtaxing of her brain.
Accidentally their eyes met. The faint, slightly aloof smile of the one
was answered by the other’s honest blush of gratitude.
“Are you studying trigonometry?” Elfreda had never studied
trigonometry herself, nor did she know exactly what trigonometry was,
but if there was anything in a name it must be a subject of superhuman
difficulty; and taking as a guide the air of concentration and the rumpled
brows of Miss Green Ulster her present difficulty could hardly be less
than superhuman.
Miss Cass haltingly explained that she was trying to win a prize in
the Saturday Sentinel.
“How amusing! But one has to be very clever to do that, hasn’t one?”
 Miss Cass was afraid that it was so. She had been trying week by
week for nearly a year, but she had only achieved an honorable mention
so far. The topic served to break the ice, however, and they began to talk
freely. This may have been due to the fact that both were glowing with a
generous wine, for it was the habit of neither to indulge in promiscuous
conversation with total strangers. But just now, in quite an odd way, their
minds began to march together, in fact one almost seemed to be the
other’s counterpart.
Miss Green Ulster confided that her name was Cass, that she came
from Laxton, that her father, three years dead, had been a solicitor, that
her mother had been dead six months, that she was left unprovided for,
and that by the recommendation of Canon Carnaby, the vicar of the
parish, who had been very good to her mother and herself, she was going
as governess to the two young children of Lieutenant Colonel Everard
Trenchard-Simpson, D. S. O., The Laurels, Clavering St. Mary’s.
Elfreda was secretly amused by a simplicity which told so much and
concealed so little. All the same she was oddly attracted by the way this
little suburban laid all her cards on the table. Her hopes, her fears, her
pathetic desire for self improvement, the general bleakness of her
outlook, her cruel sense of loneliness now that her mother as well as her
father was dead, her poverty, her lack of a really first-class education, the
exposure of all these things verged upon the indecent, but somehow they
called insistently for pity.
Poor Miss Cass! And yet ... Elfreda shivered at her thoughts ... lucky
Miss Cass!
“How thrilling to act ... in public ... on a real stage ... to a real
audience!” The gray eyes looked quite charming in their awe and their
sincerity.
“Do you really think so?” The slight drawl with its tag of fatigue was
equally sincere.
“Oh, I should just love it—that is, I should just love it if I were you.”
The candor was almost indecent, but a nearly whole tumbler of a great
wine was working spells. What Miss Cass really meant was that she
would love to be the daughter of a marquis.
Elfreda deplored her taste and sighed for her innocence. “Think how
bored you’d be to learn a long and stupid part—so that you were simply
word perfect in it.”
 “I should just love it.” Miss Cass grew enthusiastic at the thought. “If
I could also be the daughter of a marquis” was the major part of that
thought, which, however, she did not put into words. But those fatal eyes
of hers, in which her soul dwelt, put it into words for her.
Elfreda smiled pityingly. How little she knew!
“By the way, you come from Laxton?”
“Yes, but this morning I gave up my rooms there. So I’ve got no
home now.”
“It happens that this stupid play is called ‘The Lady of Laxton.’”
“There are very few real ladies in Laxton,” said the student of The
Patrician in a burst of candor.
“So one would think if this play is at all true to life,” rose to the lips
of Elfreda, but she did not allow it to escape.
What she did say was, “The plot of this play is that a governess and a
peer’s daughter arriving at a place in the country by the same train get
mixed up. The governess goes off with the other girl’s luggage as a guest
to one house and the peer’s daughter finds herself taken for a governess
at the other.”
“But what a splendid idea!”
“Do you really think so?” The daughter of the marquis opened
incredulous eyes. “In the first place, it could never have happened.”
“Oh, I think it might have happened—but of course it would have
been found out at once.”
“As a matter of fact, the author gets over that part rather well. It
seems they arranged the matter beforehand because the peer’s daughter
wanted to teach some snobs a lesson.”
“But it’s splendid!” Miss Cass clapped her hands with enthusiasm—
the Devil was in the wine. “And, of course, the son at the smart house
proposes to the governess thinking she’s the peer’s daughter and vice
versa.”
“How were you able to guess that?”
Miss Cass had been able to guess that because the Saturday Sentinel
said she had insight. But modesty, of course, forbade her to say that to
Lady Elfreda, who was looking at her now with an intentness greater and
more curious than she had ever noticed in any human countenance.
Of what was she thinking, the daughter of the marquis? The mind of
Miss Cass could not stop to inquire. For that deep, delicious voice, that
seemed to treat each individual syllable of the English language as a
work of art, was saying: “As a matter of fact, that is what happens in the
play, but it is all so extraordinarily stupid that one simply loathes——”
The stern critic had suddenly caught the look of pain in the eyes of
the lady opposite. Then it was she realized that to some minds the
situation itself and even the vulgarly obvious working out of it might not
be intolerable.
 IV
Twasconversation, which was becoming full of perilous possibilities,
interrupted by the stopping of the train at Newbury. From her
place by the window Elfreda observed a consequential little man
strutting along the platform in the direction of their compartment. He
was looking for a vacant seat. She recognized at once by a portrait in the
Society Pictorial now open on her knee, that he was no less a person than
Sir Toby Philpot, the author of the play; and to judge by the quantity of
luggage in charge of his servant it was not unreasonable to suppose that
he was on his way to the scene of action at Clavering St. Mary’s.
He looked a harmless little donkey enough, but among Elfreda’s own
friends he had the reputation of a bounder. It was this fact in the first
instance which may have led her to judge “The Lady of Laxton” so
harshly; at all events the piece could scarcely have been as bad as she
thought it was or it would never have held together. But at least it went
far to account for the depth of her resentment against her father and
mother who, without giving her any option in the matter, had so high-
handedly let her in for something she was going to dislike intensely.
A sense of disgust pervaded Elfreda. Really there was hardly
anything about the little man to call for such an emotion, but it was his
misfortune to be the central figure just now of the world she was hating.
“Pikey!” Her imperiousness was almost savage in the ear of the
Werewolf opposite. “Put your head out.” Elfreda lowered the window
fiercely. “Look your largest.” She might have been addressing a very
favorite grizzly whom she had been clever enough to tame. “Let him see
you.... Let him really see you.”
As soon as Pikey grew alive to the situation she rose and thrust forth
her head in all its man-hating ruthlessness. She was only just in time. Sir
Toby, having caught a glimpse already of a decidedly attractive
occupant, was making a bee-line for the carriage door. But the sight of
Pikey, grim as a gargoyle and breathing latent ferocity, gave pause even
to a recently elected member of the Old Buck House Club. Swollen with
self-importance Sir Toby undoubtedly was, but in point of inches he was