Jill [antikvár]

The Olivér Galbraiths had to pay super-tax. They were, like all those who are subject to this outrage, badly off. Cathie Galbraith could have either a car, or a maid of her own, but not both. She chose the car, and did her own hair, and the housemaid did her mending. Galbraith was a stockbroker. They lived in Chelsea Park Gardens. Cathie Galbraith, at thirty, lived life very con-sciously. She knew the value of her own appreciations, and she enjoyed—not at all arrogantly, but rather with a faint tang of pleasant amusement—her own powers öf enjoyment. It was agreeable, she felt, to be endowed with artistic perception, but she perfectly realised that the artistic perception, without the assistance of a care-ful education, might have merely, landed its possessor in a morass of likés and dislikes, of clumsy fumblings after sound, and shape, and colour, that should conform to a standard itself rather blurre~d and unstable. Cathie's standards were quite definite. How should they not be, when she had all her life not only been shown, but—subtle and all-embracing distinction—taught to see, the true and the beautiful. Perception was part of her inheritance, too. Although her father's powers of expression had not been in proportion to his erudition, his translations from the Greek were not known only in his own 9