“The announced suffragettes are not the only ones who care for England’s future,” she said. “I suppose I care a good deal because I’m in the newspaper world, and I know something of what she has to contend against in the way of petty party spirit and the self-aggrandising of some of her so-called leaders, who haven’t an ounce of true patriotism, and only want to shout something outrageous in a very loud voice, just to attract public attention.” “I think Bruce is right up to a certain point,” remarked Lord Denton. “We can hardly contemplate the reinstitution of polygamy, but it certainly ought to be the business of the State to see that every child born into the country is given the best possible conditions in which to become a good citizen and, if necessary, a good soldier.” “Isn’t there a Poor Law for that express purpose?” asked Lorraine. “Don’t speak of it,” commented Quin sadly. “Our Poor Law, like so many excellent institutions, is mostly run on a wrong basis. Huge sums of money are expended in procuring homes for homeless children, and the last thing that seems to be considered is the suitability of the home. Applications are accepted in a perfunctory, business-like way by guardians and others—and perhaps an inspector takes a casual glance round; but the moral aspect of the whole matter, as to character and habits, is mostly left to chance. We, who are on the spot, often have to rescue children from the homes the State has provided for them.” “It is more supervision, then, that you want?” asked Lord Denton. “It is a different sort of supervision altogether. It ought to be woman’s work, not man’s—women who are paid and encouraged and helped.” “But that might be defying some of the precious conventions,” put in Hal with a touch of scorn—“making women too important, don’t you know; and encouraging them to be something more than household ornaments. We can’t have that, even for the sake of the future. It would be too alarming. No; England will continue in her cast-iron rut of prejudice, until most of her soul-power is dried up, and only the husk of a great nation is left, to follow in the way of other husks.” “Then I will go to the new, young, strong nation, and watch her splendid rise,” quoth Dick. “Traitor!” they threw at him, but he was quite imperturbed. “Strength and vigour are better than old traditions and an enfeebled race; and somebody, somewhere on the globe, had got to listen to what I am bound to teach.” “You dear old Juggins,” said Hal, “when England has passed her zenith, and gone under to the new, strong race, you will be found sitting meditating among cabbages and green peas, like Omar Khayyám in his rose garden. The rest of us will have died in the fighting-line—except Baby, and they will put him under a glass case, and preserve him as one of the few fine specimens left of a decadent race—in spite of his brainlessness.” “Are we a decadent race?” asked Lorraine thoughtfully.