"No, no, of course you can neither read nor write. But why do you work so hard?" "My dear lady, with a growing family----" "But _why_ does your family grow?" Their wives wished that too, or perhaps it was the British Empire. But more significant than the answers were the refusals to answer. Very few would reply at all to questions about morality and religion, and such answers as were given were not serious. Questions as to the value of money and power were almost invariably brushed aside, or pressed at extreme risk to the asker. "I'm sure," said Jill, "that if Sir Harley Tightboots hadn't been carving the mutton when I asked him about the capitalist system he would have cut my throat. The only reason why we escaped with our lives over and over again is that men are at once so hungry and so chivalrous. They despise us too much to mind what we say." "Of course they despise us," said Eleanor. "At the same time how do you account for this--I made enquiries among the artists. Now, no woman has ever been an artist, has she, Poll?" "Jane-Austen-Charlotte-Bronte-George-Eliot," cried Poll, like a man crying muffins in a back street. "Damn the woman!" someone exclaimed. "What a bore she is!" "Since Sappho there has been no female of first rate----" Eleanor began, quoting from a weekly newspaper. "It's now well known that Sappho was the somewhat lewd invention of Professor Hobkin," Ruth interrupted. "Anyhow, there is no reason to suppose that any woman ever has been able to write or ever will be able to write," Eleanor continued. "And yet, whenever I go among authors they never cease to talk to me about their books. Masterly! I say, or Shakespeare himself! (for one must say something) and I assure you, they believe me." "That proves nothing," said Jane. "They all do it. Only," she sighed, "it doesn't seem to help _us_ much. Perhaps we had better examine modern literature next. Liz, it's your turn." Elizabeth rose and said that in order to prosecute her enquiry she had dressed as a man and been taken for a reviewer. "I have read new books pretty steadily for the past five years," said she. "Mr. Wells is the most popular living writer; then comes Mr. Arnold Bennett; then Mr. Compton Mackenzie; Mr. McKenna and Mr. Walpole may be bracketed together." She sat down. "But you've told us nothing!" we expostulated. "Or do you mean that these gentlemen have greatly surpassed Jane-Elliot and that English fiction is----where's that review of yours? Oh, yes, 'safe in their hands.'" "Safe, quite safe," she said, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. "And I'm sure that they give away even more than they receive." We were all sure of that. "But," we pressed her, "do they write good books?"