newly declared itself, since women came to the front. No materialist
like a woman; give her a voice in the control of things, and good-bye
to all our ideals. Hard cash, military glory, glittering and clanging
triumph--these be the gods of a woman's heart. Thought and talk drowned
by a scream; nerves worried into fiddle-strings. We had our vain
illusion; we were generous in our manly way. Open the door! Let the
women come forth and breathe fresh air! Justice for wives, an open
field for those who will not or cannot wed! We meant well, but it was a
letting out of the waters. There's your idle lady with the pretty face,
who wants to make laws for the amusement of breaking them. 'As a jewel
of gold in a swine's snout, so is a fair woman without discretion.'
There's your hard-featured woman who thinks that nobody in the world
but she has brains. And our homes are tumbling about our heads, because
there's no one to look after them. 'One man among a thousand have I
found, but a woman among all those have I not found.' Back with them to
nursery and kitchen, pantry and herb-garden! Back with them, or we
perish."

Dyce wore a broad smile. He knew that he himself would have spoken thus
had he not been committed to another way of talking. Breakspeare, too,
smiled, but with only half-assent; he reserved his bigamous
alternative. Martin Blaydes took a long draught from his beaker, puffed
half-a-dozen rings of smoke, and pursued his diatribe in the same
good-natured growl.

"The fury to get rich--who is so responsible for it as the crowd of
indolent, luxurious and vain women? The frenzy to become
notorious--almost entirely women's work. The spirit of reckless
ambition in public life encouraged by the sex which has never known the
meaning of responsibility. Decay of the arts--inevitable result of the
predominance of little fools who never admired anything but art in
millinery. Revival of delight in manslaying--what woman could ever
resist a uniform? Let them be; let them be. Why should they spoil our
ale and tobacco? Friend Breakspeare, how's your wife? Now there, Mr.
Lashmar, there is a woman such as I honour! 'She will do him good and
not evil all the days of her life.' A woman of the by-gone day--gentle
but strong, silent and wise. 'Give her of the fruit of her hands, and
let her own works praise her in the gates!' Mr. Lashmar, your beaker
stands empty. So, by the bye, does the jug. Mrs. Ricketts!"

The little room contained many