“Therefore the female birth rate must be higher than the male.” Miss Whiffen retorted with figures. She was always attacking Mrs. Brocklebank with statistics. “If you look up the records you will find that there are about a hundred and five boys born to every hundred girls.” “That does not alter the situation.” “Oh, of course not.” “This scheme of helping marriageable young women to emigrate——” Mrs. Brocklebank paused, and turned the big gun on Miss Whiffen. “I said marriageable young women! Have you any objection to the term, Miss Whiffen?” “Oh, not in the least! But does it follow that, because they marry when they get to the Colonies——” “What follows?” “Why, children.” “Marriages are more fruitful in a young country.” “But are they? When my married sister was home from Australia last time, she told me——” Gertrude Canterton joined in. “Yes, it’s just the prevailing selfishness, the decadence of home life.” “Men are so much more selfish than they used to be.” “I think the women are as bad. And, of course, the question of population——” Old Lady Marchendale, who had dozed off in her arm-chair by the window, woke up, caught a few fragmental words, and created a digression. “They ought to be made to have them—by law!” “But, my dear Lady Marchendale——” “I see her ladyship’s point.” “Every girl ought to have her own room.” “Of course, most certainly! But in the matter of emigration——” “Emigration? What has emigration to do with the Shop Girls’ Self Help Society?” “My dear Lady Marchendale, we are discussing the scheme for sending young women to the Colonies.” “Bless me, I must have been asleep. I remember. Look at that lad of yours, Mrs. Canterton, out there in the garden. I’m sure he has cut his hand.” Lady Marchendale might be rather deaf, but she had unusually sharp eyes, and Gertrude Canterton, rising in her chair, saw one of the lads employed in the home garden running across the lawn, and wrapping a piece of sacking round his left hand and wrist. She hurried to the window. “What is the matter, Pennyweight?” “Cut m’ wrist, mum, swappin’ the hedge.” “How careless! I will come and see what wants doing.” There had been First Aid classes in the village. In fact, Gertrude Canterton had started them. Miss Whiffen and several members of the committee followed her into the garden and surrounded the lad Pennyweight, who looked white and scared. “Take that dirty sacking away, Pennyweight! Don’t you know such things are full of microbes?” “It’s bleedin’ so bad, mum.” “Let me see.” The lad obeyed her, uncovering his wrist gingerly, his face flinching. The inner swathings of sacking were being soaked with blood from the steady pumping of a half-severed artery. Miss Whiffen made a little sibilant sound. “Sssf, sssf—dear, dear!” “A nasty cut.” Pennyweight hesitated between restive fright and awe of all these gentlewomen. “Hadn’t I better go t’ Mr. Lavender, mum? It does bleed.”