as a quick writer and had a great deal of genius, as we know,
but she was harassed and worried to-day, and for a time the paper which
she had promised to give to Florence did not go smoothly. She was in
reality much interested in the struggles of the woman who was at that
time called "modern." She pitied her; she felt that she belonged to the
class. Had she time she would have written with much power, upholding
her, commending her, encouraging her to proceed, assuring her that the
difficulties which now surrounded her lot would disappear, and that
by-and-by those who watched her struggles would sympathise with her more
and more. But she had not time to do this. It was much easier to be
sarcastic, bitter, crushing. This was her real forte. She determined to
write quickly and in her bitterest vein. She was in her element. The
paper she was writing would make the modern woman sit up and would make
the domestic woman rejoice. It was dead against aestheticism: against all
reform with regard to women's education. It was cruel in its pretended
lack of knowledge of women's modern needs.

Bertha felt that she hated her at that moment. She would give vent to
her hatred. She would turn the disagreeable, pugnacious, upstart New
Woman into ridicule.

If Bertha possessed one weapon which she used with greater power than
another it was that of sarcasm. She could be sarcastic to the point of
cruelty. Soon her cheeks glowed and her eyes shone: she was in her
element. She was writing quickly, for bare life, and she was writing
well. The paper would make the New Woman sit up, and would make the old
woman rejoice. It would be read eagerly. It was not a kind paper. It was
the sort of paper to do harm, not good; but its cleverness was
undoubted. She finished it just before the luncheon gong rang, and felt
that she had done admirable work.

"After all," she said to herself, "why should I work through the channel
of that little imp, Florence Aylmer? Why should she have the fame and
glory, and I stay here as a poor companion? Why should I not throw up
the thing and start myself as a writer and get praise and money and all
the good things which fame and success bring in their train? Why should
I not do it?"

Bertha thought. She held the paper in her hand. It was but to betray
Florence and go herself to the editor of the _Argonaut_ and explain
everything, and the deed was done. But no: she could not do it. She knew
better--she was trying for