as one may call it, of a woman's life. I, who know what it is to be childless" she sighed and ceased.
"But we must not be hard," said Mrs. Thornbury. "The conditions are so much changed since I was a young woman."
"Surely maternity does not change," said Mrs. Elliot.
"In some ways we can learn a great deal from the young," said Mrs. Thornbury. "I learn so much from my own daughters."
"I believe that Hughling really doesn't mind," said Mrs. Elliot. "But then he has his work."
"Women without children can do so much for the children of others," observed Mrs. Thornbury gently.
"I sketch a great deal," said Mrs. Elliot, "but that isn't really an occupation. It's so disconcerting to find girls just beginning doing better than one does oneself! And nature's difficult—very difficult!"
"Are there not institutions—clubs—that you could help?" asked Mrs. Thornbury.
"They are so exhausting," said Mrs. Elliot. "I look strong, because of my colour; but I'm not; the youngest of eleven never is."
"If the mother is careful before," said Mrs. Thornbury judicially, "there is no reason why the size of the family should make any difference. And there is no training like the training that brothers and sisters give each other. I am sure of that. I have seen it with my own children. My eldest boy Ralph, for instance"
But Mrs. Elliot was inattentive to the elder lady's experience, and her eyes wandered about the hall.
"My mother had two miscarriages, I know," she said suddenly. "The first because she met one of those great dancing bears—they shouldn't be allowed; the other—it was a horrid story—our cook had a child and there was a dinner party. So I put my dyspepsia down to that."
"And a miscarriage is so much worse than a confinement," Mrs. Thornbury murmured absent-mindedly, adjusting her spectacles and picking up The Times. Mrs. Elliot rose and fluttered away.
When she had heard what one of the million voices speaking
