men who would die, and the women who would weep: they should be given
something more than the privilege of either cheering platform patriots or
being summoned for interrupting public meetings.

From a dismal side street there darted past her a small, shapeless figure
in crumpled cap and apron: evidently a member of that lazy, over-indulged
class, the domestic servant. Judging from the talk of the drawing-rooms,
the correspondence in the papers, a singularly unsatisfactory body. They
toiled not, lived in luxury and demanded grand pianos. Someone had
proposed doing something for them. They themselves--it seemed that even
they had a sort of conscience--were up in arms against it. Too much
kindness even they themselves perceived was bad for them. They were
holding a meeting that night to explain how contented they were. Six
peeresses had consented to attend, and speak for them.

Likely enough that there were good-for-nothing, cockered menials imposing
upon incompetent mistresses. There were pampered slaves in Rome. But
these others. These poor little helpless sluts. There were thousands
such in every city, over-worked and under-fed, living lonely,
pleasureless lives. They must be taught to speak in other voices than
the dulcet tones of peeresses. By the light of the guttering candles,
from their chill attics, they should write to her their ill-spelt
visions.

She had reached a quiet, tree-bordered road, surrounding a great park.
Lovers, furtively holding hands, passed her by, whispering.

She would write books. She would choose for her heroine a woman of the
people. How full of drama, of tragedy must be their stories: their
problems the grim realities of life, not only its mere sentimental