As a matter of fact Atma had freshly turned the earth. I hold to that in the garden; it seems to me a parallel to good housekeeping. The new-dug mould makes a most enhancing background; and an empty bed, if it is only freshly made, offers the mind as much pleasure as a gay parterre. It is the sense, I suppose, of effort expended and care taken, and above all it is a stretch of the possible, a vista beyond the realized present which is as valuable in a garden as it is in life. Oh no, not as valuable. In life it is the most precious thing, and it is sparingly accorded. Thalia has it, I know, but I looked at the Average Woman in doubt. Thalia, whatever else she does, will have high comedy always for her portion, and who can tell in what scenes she will play or at what premières she will assist? But the Average Woman,--can one not guess at the end of ten years what she will be talking about, what she will have experienced, what she will have done? I looked at the Average Woman and wondered. She was explaining to Thalia the qualities of milk tea. I decided that she was probably happier than Thalia, and that there was no need whatever to be sorry for her. She stayed a long time; I think she enjoyed herself; and when she went away of course we talked about her. We spoke in a vein of criticism, and I was surprised to learn that the thing about the Average Woman to which Thalia took most exception was her husband. I had always found the poor patient creatures entirely supportable, and I said so. “Oh, yes,” replied Thalia impatiently, “in themselves they’re well enough. But didn’t you hear her? ‘_George adores you in “Lady Thermidore.”_’ Now that annoys me.” “Does it?” said I. “Why shouldn’t George adore you in _Lady Thermidore_ if he wants to, especially if he tells his wife?” “That’s exactly it,” said Thalia. “If he really did he wouldn’t tell her. But he doesn’t. She just says so in order to give herself the pleasure of imagining that I am charmed to believe that George--her George--” “I see,” I said, sympathetically. “They are always offering their husbands up to me like that,” continued Thalia, gloomily. “They expect me, I suppose, to blush and simper. As if I hadn’t a very much better one of my own!” “They think it the highest compliment they can pay you.” “Precisely. That’s what is so objectionable. And besides it’s a mistake.” “I shall never tell you that Tiglath-Pileser adores you,” I stated. “My dear, I have known it for ages!” said Thalia, _en se sauvant_, as they do in French novels.