"Now that all women want to work, will they continue to civilize? I know not yet how things may go. They all want to work. They try to work, whether they are fit for it or not. They take men's work at a quarter the pay. I know not how it will end. They turn the men adrift; they drive them out of the country, and then congratulate themselves--poor fools! And for themselves, I chiefly dread their hardening. The woman who tries to turn herself into a man is a creature terrible--unnatural. I know the ideal woman of the past. I cannot find the ideal woman of the present." "There isn't any." "If we surrender the sacerdotal functions, what have we in exchange?" "I don't know." The manner meant, "I don't care;" but Hilarie hardly observed the manner. "I cannot alter the conditions, cousin. That is quite true. But there are some things which can be done." Hilarie went on, at this point, to tell a story, for one who could read between the lines--which her cousin certainly could not--of a girl dominated partly by a sense of responsibility and duty; one who, being rich, must do something with her wealth, partly by that passion for power which is developed in some hearts--not all--by the possession of wealth; and partly by a deep sympathy with the sufferings and sorrows of her impecunious sisters. There are always, as we know, at every moment of life, two courses open to us--the right and the wrong; or, if the choice is not so elementary, the better and the worse. But there comes to those of the better sort one supreme moment when we seem to choose the line which will lead to honour, or the line which will lead to obscurity. To the common sort the choice is only apparent, not real; men and women are pushed, pulled, dragged, shoved, either in the way of fortune or in the way of failure, by circumstances and conditions beyond our control. To them there is no free will. When the time of repentance arrives, we think that we choose freely. The majority cannot choose; their lives are ordered for them, with their sins and their follies. They might choose, but they are not able; they cannot see before them or around them. A fog lies about their steps; they stumble along with the multitude, getting now and then a pleasant bit, now and then a thorny bit. Some walk delicately along a narrow way, which is grassy and flowery, where the babbling brooks run with champagne, and the spicy breezes are laden with the fragrance of melons, peaches, and roast lamb. Some march and stagger along the broad way, thirsty and weary, where there is no refreshment of brooks or of breezes. It is an unequal world. Such a supreme moment came to Hilarie after long consideration. "I thought," she explained, "that if the Archbishop and his brethren were living to-day, they would do something for the women who work." Her cousin slowly drank a glass of champagne. "Yes?" he asked, without much affectation of interest.