vantly. "And of course this meeting was all pure accident."
Father and daughter remained silent for awhile, seeking a better grip.
"What exactly do you want, Eleanor?" he asked.
She looked up at him. "Generally?" she asked.
"Your mother has the impression that you are discontented."
"Discontented is a horrid word."
"Well—unsatisfied."
She remained still for a time. She felt the moment had come to make her demand.
"I would like to go to Newnham or Somerville—and work. I feel—so horribly ignorant. Of all sorts of things. If I were a son I should go"
"Ye—es," said the bishop and reflected.
He had gone rather far in the direction of the Woman Suffrage people; he had advocated equality of standard in all sorts of matters, and the memory of these utterances hampered him.
"You could read here," he tried.
"If I were a son, you wouldn't say that."
His reply was vague. "But in this home," he said, "we have a certain atmosphere...."
He left her to imply her differences in sensibility and response from the hardier male.
Her hesitation marked the full gravity of her reply.
