“You must permit me to differ,” said Mrs. Pembrose, and for weeks afterwards Mr. Brumley was still seeking a proper polite retort to that difficult counterstroke. It was such a featureless reply. It was like having your nose punched suddenly by a man without a face. They descended to a more particular treatment of the problems ahead. Mrs. Pembrose quoted certain precedents from the Girls’ Club Union. “The people Lady Harman contemplates—entertaining,” said Mr. Brumley, “are of a slightly more self-respecting type than those young women.” “It’s largely veneer,” said Mrs. Pembrose.... “Detestable little wretch,” said Mr. Brumley when at last she had departed. He was very uncomfortable. “She’s just the quintessence of all one fears and dreads about these new developments, she’s perfect—in that way—self-confident, arrogant, instinctively aggressive, with a tremendous class contempt. There’s a multitude of such people about who hate the employed classes, who _want_ to see them broken in and subjugated. I suppose that kind of thing is in humanity. Every boy’s school has louts of that kind, who love to torment fags for their own good, who spring upon a chance smut on the face of a little boy to scrub him painfully, who have a kind of lust to dominate under the pretence of improving. I remember——But never mind that now. Keep that woman out of things or your hostels work for the devil.” “Yes,” said Lady Harman. “Certainly she shall not——. No.” But there she reckoned without her husband. “I’ve settled it,” he said to her at dinner two nights later. “What?” “Mrs. Pembrose.” “You’ve not made her——?” “Yes, I have. And I think we’re very lucky to get her.” “But—Isaac! I don’t want her!” “You should have told me that before, Elly. I’ve made an agreement.” She suddenly wanted to cry. “But——You said I should manage these Hostels myself.” “So you shall, Elly. But we must have somebody. When we go abroad and all that and for all the sort of business stuff and looking after things that you can’t do. We’ve _got_ to have her. She’s the only thing going of her sort.” “But—I don’t like her.” “Well,” cried Sir Isaac, “why in goodness couldn’t you tell me that before, Elly? I’ve been and engaged her.” She sat pale-faced staring at him with wide open eyes in which tears of acute disappointment were shining. She did not dare another word because of her trick of weeping. “It’s all right, Elly,” said Sir Isaac. “How touchy you are! Anything you want about these Hostels of yours, you’ve only got to tell me and it’s done.” §11