There had been a meeting that afternoon at Lady Malden's in Prince's Gate to consider the position of the working-class woman. It had provided a somewhat heated discussion, for a person had got up and proved almost incontestably that the working-class woman had no position whatsoever. Gregory Vigil and Mrs. Shortman had left this meeting together, and, crossing the Serpentine, struck a line over the grass. “Mrs. Shortman,” said Gregory, “don't you think we're all a little mad?” He was carrying his hat in his hand, and his fine grizzled hair, rumpled in the excitement of the meeting, had not yet subsided on his head. “Yes, Mr. Vigil. I don't exactly----” “We are all a little mad! What did that woman, Lady Malden, mean by talking as she did? I detest her!” “Oh, Mr. Vigil! She has the best intentions!” “Intentions?” said Gregory. “I loathe her! What did we go to her stuffy drawing-room for? Look at that sky!” Mrs. Shortman looked at the sky. “But, Mr. Vigil,” she said earnestly, “things would never get done. Sometimes I think you look at everything too much in the light of the way it ought to be!” “The Milky Way,” said Gregory. Mrs. Shortman pursed her lips; she found it impossible to habituate herself to Gregory's habit of joking. They had scant talk for the rest of their journey to the S. R. W. C., where Miss Mallow, at the typewriter, was reading a novel. “There are several letters for you, Mr. Vigil” “Mrs. Shortman says I am unpractical,” answered Gregory. “Is that true, Miss Mallow?” The colour in Miss Mallow's cheeks spread to her sloping shoulders. “Oh no. You're most practical, only--perhaps--I don't know, perhaps you do try to do rather impossible things, Mr. Vigil.” “Bilcock Buildings!” There was a minute's silence. Then Mrs. Shortman at her bureau beginning to dictate, the typewriter started clicking. Gregory, who had opened a letter, was seated with his head in his hands. The voice ceased, the typewriter ceased, but Gregory did not stir. Both women, turning a little in their seats, glanced at him. Their eyes caught each other's and they looked away at once. A few seconds later they were looking at him again. Still Gregory did not stir. An anxious appeal began to creep into the women's eyes. “Mr. Vigil,” said Mrs. Shortman at last, “Mr. Vigil, do you think---” Gregory raised his face; it was flushed to the roots of his hair. “Read that, Mrs. Shortman.” Handing her a pale grey letter stamped with an eagle and the motto '.trenuus aureaque penna' he rose and paced the room. And as with his long, light stride he was passing to and fro, the woman at the bureau conned steadily the writing, the girl at the typewriter sat motionless with a red and jealous face. Mrs. Shortman folded the letter, placed it on the top of the bureau, and said without raising her eyes-- “Of course, it is very sad for the poor little girl; but surely, Mr. Vigil, it must always be, so as to check, to check----”