The child called out, “I’m nearly seventeen! I call it an outrage!” Rosalie got up and went to her. “Darling, they couldn’t be shown. They’re just burnt. They’re forgotten.” She put out inviting arms. “My poor Doda!” That child, almost touched by her arms, brushed herself from the arms. “Why should I have things like this done to me by you?” “Doda, I am your mother. You have a duty--” “Well, I won’t have a duty! Why should I have a duty? I didn’t ask to be born, did I? You chose for me to be born, didn’t you? I didn’t choose it. I’ll never forget this. Never, never, never!” Tears rushed into her eyes and leapt from her eyes. She gave an impassioned gesture. She rushed from the room. Strike on! Look at her. There she is. She’s only eighteen but she’s woman now. Grown-up. “Out,” as one would have said in the old and stupid days, but out much wider than the freest budding woman then. It’s 1919. They’ve caught, the rising generation, the flag of liberty that the war flamed across the world; license, the curmudgeons call it; liberty, the young set free. It’s 1919. She’s been a year war-working in one of the huge barracks run up all over London for the multitudes of women clerks the Government departments needed and, the war over, not too quickly can give up. She loves it. She’s made a host of friends. Her friends are all the girls of wealthy parents, like herself, or of parents of position if not of means; and all, like her, are far from with complaint against the war that’s given them this priceless avenue away from home. She loves it. Of course she doesn’t love the actual work. Who would? What she loves is the constant titillation of it. The titillation of getting down there of a morning and of the greetings and the meetings and the rapt resumptions of the past day’s fun; the titillation of watching the clock for lunch and of those lunches, here to-day, to-morrow there, and of the rush to get back not too late. The titillation of watching the clock for tea, and of tea, and then, most sharpest titillation of them all, watching the clock for--time!; for--off!; for--out!; away! That is the charm of it in detail. The charm in general, as once expressed to Rosalie by one of Doda’s friends brought in to tea one Sunday is, “You see, it gets you through the day.” That’s it. The night’s all right. There’s nearly always something doing for the night. It’s just the day would be so hopeless were there not this lively way of “getting through the day.” That’s it, for Doda.