Hilarie smiled, and murmured something inaudible. "And we keep the outer world outside. You, I fear"--he looked down the room--"admit the outer world. You lose a great deal. For instance, if this mob was out of your lovely house, I might bring my friends. It would be an ideal place for our pictures and our music, and for the acting of our plays." "I fear the mob must remain." Hilarie began to doubt whether her college would appeal, after all, to this young man. "What we should aim at in life," the artist continued, "is Art without Humanity." "I should have said that Humanity is the basis of all Art." Her cousin shook his head. "Not true Art--that is bodiless. I fear you do not yet belong to us." "No; I belong to these girls, who are anything but bodiless." "Your college, I take it, has something to do with helping people?" "Certainly." "My own view is that you cannot help people. You may give them things, but you only make them want more. People have got to help themselves." "Did you help yourself?" "Oh, I am born to what my forefathers acquired. As for these girls, to whom you are giving things, you will only make them discontented." The president of the college looked round the hall. There were forty white frocks encasing as many girls, students at her college, and as many guests. There was a cheerful ripple of talk; one thought of a dancing sea in the sunlight. There were outbursts of laughter--light, musical; one thought of the white crests of the waves. In the music-gallery the girls played softly and continuously; one thought of the singing of birds in the coppice. The dinner was already half finished. There is a solid simplicity about these guest nights. A short dinner, with jellies, ices, and puddings, most commends itself to the feminine heart. "Let me tell you my design, at least. I saw that in this revolution of society, going on so rapidly around us, all classes of women are rushing into work." "A woman who works ceases to be a woman," Humphrey spoke and shuddered. "I think of my great-grandmother Hilarie, wife of Robert, who lies buried in our church. She sat with her maids in the lady's bower and embroidered. She administered everything--the food and the drink and the raiment. She made them all behave with decency. She brought up the children, and taught them right and wrong. Above all, she civilized. To-day, as yesterday and to-morrow and always, it is the duty of woman to civilize. She is the everlasting priestess. This is therefore a theological college." Her cheek flushed, her eye brightened. She turned her head, as if suspecting that she had said too much. Her cousin seemed not to have heard; he was, in fact, absorbed in partridge.