She turned slowly and gave me a look of such haughty inquiry that I almost wilted. “I beg your pardon,” I said meekly, “but it seemed to me rather a shocking advantage to take. Really--how _could_ you?” “Of course, as you don’t write you don’t know that a true artist sees copy in everything, that human nature was made to be studied, and that when a palpitating leaf is torn out and flung into an author’s lap he would be seven different kinds of fool if he didn’t read it.” “I can understand now why your literature is heartless,” I retorted, “for you kill your own heart before you write it. But, if you go in for brain-picking to that extent, why do you so persistently ignore the motive power of human life--sex?” “Oh,” she said with an accent of contempt and disgust. “_We_ don’t want any of that. We leave that to the decadent civilisations. It’s not the fashion in this country. _We’re_ healthy.” “I think you are decidedly unhealthy,” I made bold to retort--“and if you don’t take care the water in your blood will prevent you from attaining full growth. Well, at all events you will escape decadency,” I added lightly. “Good night.” I crossed the room toward Mr. Rogers, determined upon retreat, but was intercepted by Mrs. Chenoweth. She gave me so sweet a smile that I was obliged to pause. “Do sit and talk to me a moment,” she said. “I have been longing to see more of you. I am glad you were so kind to Miss Simpson. I think she is a type that should be encouraged and I am doing all I can for her. Of course she is what is called self-made, she has no family tree, but, as Junot said, ‘Some of us must be ancestors’--you remember that is quoted in the Rémusat Memoirs; delightful reading, whether they are authentic or not. I thought I would tell you just how Miss Simpson stands, lest you should wonder a little at her accent and stiffness; but she is so estimable and capable and altogether superior--and bound to go so far--I am sure you will think I am right to take her up.” “I don’t see any reason in the world why you shouldn’t,” I replied, “and it certainly has interested me very much to meet her. I really must go, if you don’t mind. I am so very tired.” On the way back I told Mr. Rogers of my conversation with Miss Simpson and of my disgust. He smiled good naturedly. “Oh, that is only the zeal of the amateur,” he said. “They get less shoppy every year.” “But don’t they lose a good deal meanwhile?” I asked. “Well, perhaps,” he admitted. The children are making such a racket with firecrackers I can scarcely think, but I send you much love and sympathy. HELEN. Letter V _From the Lady_ HELEN POLE _to the Countess of_ EDGE _and_ ROSS. _Boulder Lake_, July 10th