only be discovered by asking questions, often
beginning at a remote distance from the centre. Is Kensington a nice
place to live in? Where is your son being educated--and your daughter?
Now please tell me, what do you pay for your cigars? By the way, is Sir
Joseph a baronet or only a knight? Often it seemed that we learnt more
from trivial questions of this kind than from more direct ones. "I
accepted my peerage," said Lord Bunkum, "because my wife wished it." I
forget how many titles were accepted for the same reason. "Working
fifteen hours out of the twenty-four, as I do----" ten thousand
professional men began.

"No, no, of course you can neither read nor write. But why do you work
so hard?" "My dear lady, with a growing family----" "But _why_ does your
family grow?" Their wives wished that too, or perhaps it was the British
Empire. But more significant than the answers were the refusals to
answer. Very few would reply at all to questions about morality and
religion, and such answers as were given were not serious. Questions as
to the value of money and power were almost invariably brushed aside, or
pressed at extreme risk to the asker. "I'm sure," said Jill, "that if
Sir Harley Tightboots hadn't been carving the mutton when I asked him
about the capitalist system he would have cut my throat. The only reason
why we escaped with our lives over and over again is that men are at
once so hungry and so chivalrous. They despise us too much to mind what
we say."

"Of course they despise us," said Eleanor. "At the same time how do you
account for this--I made enquiries among the artists. Now, no woman has
ever been an artist, has she, Poll?"

"Jane-Austen-Charlotte-Bronte-George-Eliot," cried Poll, like a man
crying muffins in a back street.

"Damn the woman!" someone exclaimed. "What a bore she is!"

"Since Sappho there has been no female of first rate----" Eleanor began,
quoting from a weekly newspaper.

"It's now well known that Sappho was the somewhat lewd invention of
Professor Hobkin," Ruth interrupted.

"Anyhow, there is no reason to suppose that any woman ever has been able
to write or ever will be able to write," Eleanor continued. "And yet,
whenever I go among authors they never cease to talk to me about their
books. Masterly! I say, or Shakespeare himself! (for one must say
something) and I assure you, they believe me."

"That proves nothing," said Jane. "They all do it. Only," she sighed,
"it doesn't s