The Queen, who is religious, puts love before religion, for woman. Her Protestantism. He for God only, she for God in him and able to change her creed when she marries. A Catholic _couldn’t_. And she would call Catholics idolators. _She_ is an idolator; of men. Mrs. Bergstein was amazed at his willingness. Envious...... _I am a Jew, a ‘head’ man incapable of ‘love’...... It is your eyes. I_ _must see them always...... I know now what is meant by love...... I am even willing to renounce my Judaism...... Michael_ to think and say that. I am crowned, for life; by a sacrifice I cannot accept. He must keep his Judaism...... You _must_ marry me...... The discovery, flowing through the grey noisy street, of the secret of the ‘mastery’ idea; that women can only be sure that a man is sure when---- “There is then _no_ common religious feeling between you?” She had moved. The light fell upon her. She was about _forty_. She had come forth, so late, from the secret numbness of her successful independent life, and had not found what she came to seek. She was still alone in her circling day. At the period of evening dress she put on a heavy gold bracelet, ugly, a heavy ugly shape. Her face was pinched and drawn; before her lay the ordeal of belated motherhood. Vulgarly violating her refined endurance had come this incident. Dignified condemnation spoke from her averted eyes. She had said her say and was desiring that there should be no further waste of time. Miriam made no sound. In the stillness that followed the blow she faced the horrible summary, stricken to her feet, her strength ebbing with her thoughts into the gathering swirling darkness. She waited for a moment. But Mrs. Bergstein made no sign. Imponderable, conscious only of the weight of her body about her holding her to the ground beneath her feet, she went away from the room and the house. In the lamplit darkness her feet carried her joyously forward into the freshness of the tree-filled air. The large square lying between her and the street where he was waiting seemed an immensity. She recovered within it the strange unfailing freedom of solitude in the sounding spaces of London and hurried on to be by his side generally expressive of her rejoicing. The world’s condemnation was out of sight behind her. But he would ask, and whatever she said, the whole problem would be there afresh, insoluble. He would never see that it had been confirmed, never admit anything contemptible in their association...... It was because there was no contempt in him that she was hurrying. But alone again with him, the troubled darkness behind her would return with its maddening influence. She was fleeing from it only towards its darkest centre. _The Mayflower Press, Plymouth, England._ William Brendon & Son, Ltd. THREE LOVING LADIES