Dinah looked uneasy, and kept silent. ‘Power--I will make a confession to you such as I never made before--power is my ideal of happiness. I want to rule, we will hope for good; in any case, to rule, to be needed on all sides, sought after, distinguished--to see my name in print! That is the truth, no matter how I may wrap truth up in fine-sounding words,’ said Marjorie Bartrand. ‘That is the secret of my enthusiasm for humanity, and of my personal ambition. To lead others, _to command_, is my ideal of happiness.’ ‘And mine,’ exclaimed Gaston Arbuthnot’s wife unhesitatingly, ‘is--to obey. For a woman to look up to another stronger life, to be ruled by a stronger will, gladly to take all little household worries on herself--I speak badly, Miss Bartrand, but you guess my meaning--and feel more than paid by one kind look or word in return, to know that as much as she wants of the world is safe between four lowly walls, to have her hours filled with the care of others, to keep her parlour bright and cheerful, to hear the voices of the children----’ Dinah’s own voice broke; and Marjorie, who had watched her with looks of lofty compassion, softened involuntarily. ‘So far from speaking badly, Mrs. Arbuthnot, you speak with very pretty eloquence. You draw a picture of constant giving up, which, if one could believe it to be from life, would, I confess, be attractive. It is drawn from life, perhaps?’ ‘Oh--no; I said only that would be my ideal of happiness,’ faltered Dinah, with a pang. ‘Fancied or real, such an existence would never do for me. I have not much taste for obedience. I have none at all for household worries. Babies I bar.’ ‘Miss Bartrand!’ ‘Yes, I do. Grandpapa and I visit about in our Pagan way among the Guernsey country people, and I know that I absolutely bar babies of every shade and degree. I am not sure I would go so far as to _injure_ one,’ said Marjorie, stealing a glance at her companion’s shocked face; ‘but I feel that they are safest kept out of my sight. I tell the mothers so.’ ‘You are too young to know what you feel, Miss Bartrand.’ There was a standstill of some moments ere Dinah recovered herself enough to speak. ‘Long before you are my age you’ll begin to see things differently. Young girls are a bit hard, I’ve sometimes thought, in all classes of life, until the time comes.’ ‘What time, may I ask?’ ‘The time for having a sweetheart and getting married,’ said Dinah Arbuthnot. From any other lips Marjorie would have regarded such a suggestion as an indignity. Dinah was so true a woman, had a soul so whitely delicate, that the speech carried with it no possible suspicion of offence. It was homely common sense, kindly and simply uttered.