“My dear, the common people form the mass of every class. There are more of them in the lower classes simply because the lower classes are the larger. Sometimes, too, the others are too cowardly to put their creed into words, though they are faithful enough to it in deeds. But of course I don’t know much about the young women of our class nowadays. I thought you had changed all that, and that all of you were running after ‘careers.’” Lucy laughed. “I don’t think that makes any difference,” she said. “A very plain distinction is generally drawn between the young woman who selects a career for her pleasure and her ‘interest in life,’ and the other who does the same thing for her livelihood.” “And I daresay nobody emphasises that distinction more strongly than some of your most advanced women,” said Mrs. Bray, whose searching observation, despite her professed ignorance, had probably taught her all that Lucy could tell her and a good deal more too. “So that’s the present-day way of it, is it? Well, my way would be that every girl should have her own father to give her a dowry suitable to her position, and her own husband who would do all the rest. I suppose that’s Utopia. We all have Utopias, and that’s mine. What does a woman want with a career, except for a living? Her grandmother and her great-grandmother (if she had any, poor dear!) found enough career in making the most of what the gods—I mean the men—provided.” “But even girls who don’t need a livelihood may find it hard to occupy themselves,” Lucy mildly suggested. “It seems cruel to deny work to any human being.” “Perhaps so, my love, but it’s very mean of them to want to be provided for as women and working women at one and the same time. Let them be one or the other, whichever they choose; they’ve a right to freedom of choice, but they ought not to be both. Why, to be so is to be the very worst form of—what is it Mr. Bray calls the men whom labourers don’t like?—black caps? No, blacklegs—yes, the very worst form of blackleg. It’s not ladylike. But here am I, rattling away about all sorts of women’s social questions (which are but branches from the kitchen after all), and forgetting the kitchen itself. Do you know, my dear, the minute you said that this hussy is leaving, it occurred to me that I know somebody who can come in her place, who will probably suit you to a T, and who will regard me as a special providence if I get her the situation.” “Oh, Mrs. Bray,” cried Lucy, “you make my heart leap with delight. This is so unexpected. Surely it is too good to be true!” (_To be continued._) THREE GIRL-CHUMS, AND THEIR LIFE IN LONDON ROOMS. BY FLORENCE SOPHIE DAVSON. CHAPTER VII. VISITORS FOR MARION.