have to do it so often, haven't they? I don't know whether I could do it. I never tried; but with you I would brave anything. Are your family clever and sympathetic? No? the kind of thing that one's family generally is? Ah, well, dear lady, we must make a little family together. Are you encouraged or disgusted? Do you go on doggedly, or have you any faith, any great idea, that lifts you up? Are you religious, now, par exemple? Do you do your work in connection with any ecclesiasticism, any missions, or priests or sisters? I'm a Catholic, you know—but so little! I shouldn't mind in the least joining hands with any one who is really doing anything. I express myself awkwardly, but perhaps you know what I mean. Possibly you don't know that I am one of those who believe that a great social cataclysm is destined to take place, and that it can't make things worse than they are already. I believe, in a word, in the people doing something for themselves (the others will never do anything for them), and I am quite willing to help them. If that shocks you I shall be immensely disappointed, because there is something in the impression you make on me that seems to say that you haven't the usual prejudices, and that if certain things were to happen you wouldn't be afraid. You are shy, are you not?—but you are not timorous. I suppose that if you thought the inequalities and oppressions and miseries which now exist were a necessary part of life, and were going on for ever, you wouldn't be interested in those people over the river (the bedridden girl and her brother, I mean); because Mr. Robinson tells me that they are advanced socialists—or at least the brother is. Perhaps you'll say that you don't care for him; the sister, to your mind, being the remark-
