must work and women must weep. The path of duty is the way to glory—” We could listen to no more of this gibberish.
“We want no more poetry!” we cried.
“Daughters of England!” she began, but here we pulled her down, a vase of water getting spilt over her in the scuffle.
“Thank God!” she exclaimed, shaking herself like a dog. “Now I’ll roll on the carpet and see if I can’t brush off what remains of the Union Jack. Then perhaps—” here she rolled energetically. Getting up she began to explain to us what modern pictures are. like when Castalia stopped her.
“What is the average size of a picture?” she asked. “Perhaps two feet by two and a half,” she said. Castalia made notes while Helen spoke, and when she had done, and we were trying not te meet each other’s eyes, rose and said, “At your wish I spent last week at Oxbridge, disguised as a charwoman. I thus had access to the rooms of several Professors and will now
