that he should prefer to
be quite free of any profession. Margaret was not shocked, but went on
sewing for a few minutes before she replied:

"I was thinking of Mr. Vyse. He never strikes me as particularly happy.

"Ye--es." said Tibby, and then held his mouth open in a curious quiver,
as if he, too, had thought of Mr. Vyse, had seen round, through, over,
and beyond Mr. Vyse, had weighed Mr. Vyse, grouped him, and finally
dismissed him as having no possible bearing on the Subject under
discussion. That bleat of Tibby's infuriated Helen. But Helen was now
down in the dining room preparing a speech about political economy. At
times her voice could be heard declaiming through the floor.

"But Mr. Vyse is rather a wretched, weedy man, don't you think? Then
there's Guy. That was a pitiful business. Besides"--shifting to the
general--"every one is the better for some regular work."

Groans.

"I shall stick to it," she continued, smiling. "I am not saying it
to educate you; it is what I really think. I believe that in the last
century men have developed the desire for work, and they must not starve
it. It's a new desire. It goes with a great deal that's bad, but in
itself it's good, and I hope that for women, too, 'not to work' will
soon become as shocking as 'not to be married' was a hundred years ago."

"I have no experience of this profound desire to which you allude,"
enunciated Tibby.

"Then we'll leave the subject till you do. I'm not going to rattle you
round. Take your time. Only do think over the lives of the men you like
most, and see how they've arranged them."

"I like Guy and Mr. Vyse most," said Tibby faintly, and leant so far
back in his chair that he extended in a horizontal line from knees to
throat.

"And don't think I'm not serious because I don't use the traditional
arguments--making money, a sphere awaiting you, and so on--all of which
are, for various reasons, cant." She sewed on. "I'm only your sister.
I haven't any authority over you, and I don't want to have any. Just
to put before you what I think the Truth. You see"--she shook off the
pince-nez to which she had recently taken--"in a few years we shall be
the same age practically, and I shall want you to help me. Men are so
much nicer than women."

"Labouring under such a delusion, why do you not marry?"

"I sometimes jolly well think I would if I got the chance."

"Has nobody arst you?"

"Only ninnies."

"Do people ask Helen?"

"