Not knowing exactly how duty could be a figure of speech, or how, indeed, it could ever be anything else, I remained silent before this reincarnation of the earliest Victorian lady I know; and Penelope's mother took up the silver teapot--not, however, to pour out tea, but to point out to me its shining surface. "In my housemaid's cupboard," she said proudly, "you will find no pieces of sodden rag, no tins of sticky brass paste, or that unpleasant saucer that sprinkles pink dust over everything within reach. We have banished all that in favour of--ah, Penelope, my dear, run and ask Sarah for one of my new cleaning-cloths, will you?" In the doorway stood Penelope, mockery shining from her eyes. "And you dare to tell me that tact is more useful in the home than a sense of humour!" she cried, in a voice that thrilled with scorn. "At all events," I retorted, "you must admit that Napoleon----" Penelope went hastily to fetch her mother's new cleaning-cloth. XIII The Game that wasn't Cricket Down the alley where I happen to live, playtime draws a sharp line between the sexes. It is not so noticeable during working hours, when girls and boys, banded together by the common grievance of compulsory education, trot off to school almost as allies, even hand-in-hand in those cases where protection is sought from the little girl by the little boy who raced her into the world and lost--or won--by half a length. But when school is over sex antagonism, largely fostered by the parent, immediately sets in. Knowing the size of the average back yard in my neighbourhood, I have plenty of sympathy for the mother who wishes to keep it clear of children. But I always want to know why, in order to secure this privacy, she gives the boy a piece of bread-and-dripping and a ball, while the girl is given a piece of bread-and-dripping and a baby. And I have not yet decided which of the two toys is the more destructive of my peace.