SUNDAY EVENING
They were talking about the First Woman; something had been said of her in the sermon that morning, and the thought had germinated in their minds all day.
Little Mrs. McKenna had had, so far, most to say; now she paused to light another cigarette, and Mrs. Roche turned her eyes in Laura's direction—she did not move her head.
"Laura has been nothing but a dusky profile. What is she thinking about that makes her so silent?"
"Laura is one of these primitive women," said Mrs. McKenna, inhaling smoke; "she doesn't think, she communes."
Laura was a big fair girl; her silences made other people talkative, her virginal starts and blushes stimulated Mrs. McKenna. She sat twisting and untwisting a gold chain round her neck, and said:
"Oh, I don't know really. I am very unoriginal, you know."
"But nobody is original," said Mrs. Roche, in her deep voice. "It's no good, really; all the oldest ideas are the best. But I was thinking, children, looking at the sunset,
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