"But, of course, one would have to have a home," Sylvia said, "an address. One would have to fill one's mid-week engagements. Really it comes to it that one has to have a husband and a place to store one's maid in. Hullo Central's been on board-wages all the time. But I don't believe she likes it. . . . Let's agree that if I had a different man every week I'd be bored with the arrangement. That's what you're getting at, isn't it?" "You'd find," the priest said, "that it whittled down until the only divvy moment was when you stood waiting in the booking-office for the young man to take the tickets. . . . And then gradually that wouldn't be divvy any more. . . . And you'd yawn and long to go back to your husband." "Look here," Mrs. Tietjens said, "you're abusing the secrets of the confessional. That's exactly what Tottie Charles said. She tried it for three months while Freddie Charles was in Madeira. It's _exactly_ what she said down to the yawn and the booking-office. _And_ the 'divvy.' It's only Tottie Charles who uses it every two words. Most of us prefer ripping! It _is_ more sensible." "Of course I haven't been abusing the secrets of the confessional," Father Consett said mildly. "Of course you haven't," Sylvia said with affection. "You're a good old stick and no end of a mimic, and you know us all to the bottom of our hearts." "Not all that much," the priest said, "there's probably a good deal of good at the bottom of your hearts." Sylvia said: "Thanks." She asked suddenly: "Look here. _Was_ it what you saw of us--the future mothers of England, you know, and all--at Miss Lampeter's--that made you take to the slums? Out of disgust and despair?" "Oh, let's not make melodrama out of it," the priest answered. "Let's say I wanted a change. I couldn't see that I was doing any good." "You did us all the good there was done," Sylvia said. "What with Miss Lampeter always drugged to the world, and all the French mistresses as wicked as hell." "I've heard you say all this before," Mrs. Satterthwaite said. "But it was supposed to be the best finishing school in England. I know it cost enough!" "Well, say it was we who were a rotten lot," Sylvia concluded; and then to the Father: "We _were_ a lot of rotters, weren't we?" The priest answered: "I don't know. I don't suppose you were--or are--any worse than your mother or grandmother, or the patricianesses of Rome or the worshippers of Ashtaroth. It seems we have to have a governing class and governing classes are subject to special temptations." "Who's Ashtaroth?" Sylvia asked. "Astarte?" and then: "Now, Father, after your experiences would you say the factory girls of Liverpool, or any other slum, are any better women than us that you used to look after?" "Astarte Syriaca," the Father said, "was a very powerful devil. There's some that hold she's not dead yet. I don't know that I do myself." "Well, I've done with her," Sylvia said. The Father nodded: