"But," protested Celia, "though that may be the case for some, or many even, when there _are_ duties that you are born into, surely it is different? And even beyond that--is it not possible that what you call dull, narrow lives, filled with stupid little odds and ends of usefulness, that don't seem usefulness at all, may be the very discipline needed by some--may be _meant_ for them?" "Oh," said Winifred impatiently, "if you are going off to the very highest grounds of all, I suppose the being an old maid in an attic may be the best discipline for old maids in attics, but it is the _system_ of narrowing down women's lives that is wrong. And if in their girlhood some of the old maids had rebelled, and insisted on taking their stand as men do, things would have been better by now. There must be individual resistance. Think what Hertha Norreys's life would have been if she had simply accepted things!" "Ah, but it was different for her. She had a great talent, and she needed to work," said Celia. "In a case like hers there could be no doubt. I really don't pity girls who _need_ to work so much as others in some ways. Not the rich--they can always, if they wish, find ways of being useful: the very conditions of their lives bring opportunities. But girls whose lives are very uninteresting, and yet not poor exactly, I pity _them_--girls who even can scarcely afford to get books to read." "They should throw nonsensical dignity to the winds, and work," said Winifred. "Yes, I think so too," said Celia. She had been thinking a great deal lately--more really and thoroughly and dispassionately than ever before in her life. She was coming to realise that, even to questions of apparently purely personal interest, there may be--there is--more than one side. And the starting-point of all these meditations had been the half-unconscious remarks of Eric Balderson the day he sat beside her at dinner and endeavoured to make amends for Mr Fancourt's neglect. The mention of Miss Norreys made Winifred determine to remain inactive no longer. "I must write to her," she decided. "I must beg her to let me see her once before I leave. We shall certainly not stay more than a week longer,"--their original three weeks had already expired--"and I must have some plan for the future before I go home, otherwise I shall really feel that the golden opportunity of this visit has been wasted. I must arrange something about where to stay when I come up again, to go into things more definitely. There is no chance now of Lady Campion's asking me, unluckily."