be less shy of dropping in at Bruton Square. It was what one felt, not what one had, that was the source of our pleasure. It was the school boy’s appetite, not a Rockefeller’s wealth that purchased the good dinner. The nursery filled with expensive toys: the healthy child had no need of them. It was the old rag doll, clutched tight to our bosom that made the attic into heaven. It was astride on the wooden horse without a head that we shouted our loudest. We over-burdened life with empty show, turned man into a mannikin. We sacrificed the play to the scenery and dresses. Four walls and a passion were all that the poet demanded. Whence had come this idea that wealth brought happiness? Not from the rich. Surely they must have learnt better, by this time. It was not the enjoyable things of life that cost money. These acres of gardens where one never got away from one’s own gardeners! What better were they than a public park? It was in the hidden corner we had planted and tended ourselves--where we knew and loved each flower, where each whispering tree was a comrade that we met God in the evening. It was the pleasant living room, where each familiar piece of furniture smiled a welcome to us when we entered, that was home. Through half-a-dozen “reception rooms,” we wandered, a stranger. The millionaire, who, reckoning interest at five per cent., paid ten thousand a year to possess an old master--how often really did he look at it? What greater artistic enjoyment did he get out of it than from looking at it in a public gallery? The joy of possession, it was the joy of the miser, of the dog in the manger. Were the silver birches in the moonlight more beautiful because we owned the freehold of the hill? She remembered her walking tours with Jim. Their packs upon their backs, and the open road before them. The evening meal at the wayside Inn, and the sweet sleep between coarse sheets. She had never cared for travel since then. It had always been such a business: the luggage and the crowd, and the general hullaballoo. What would the children say? Well, they could not preach, either of them: there was that consolation. The boy, at the beginning of the war, and without saying a word to either of them, had thrown up everything, had gone out as a common soldier--he had been so fearful they might try to stop him--facing death for an ideal. She certainly was not going to be afraid of anything he could say, after that. Norah’s armour would prove even yet more vulnerable. Norah, a young lady brought up amid all the traditions of respectability, had dared even ridicule; had committed worse than crimes--vulgarities. A militant suffragette reproving fanaticism need not be listened to attentively.