very afternoon had condemned to be hanged.  ‘It is always a satisfaction,’ remarked to him genially the judge, ‘condemning any prisoner defended by you.  One feels so absolutely certain he was guilty.’  The K. C. responded that he should always remember the judge’s words with pride.”

“Who was it,” asked the Philosopher, “who said: ‘Before you can attack a lie, you must strip it of its truth’?”

“It sounds like Emerson,” I ventured.

“Very possibly,” assented the Philosopher; “very possibly not.  There is much in reputation.  Most poetry gets attributed to Shakespeare.”

“I entered a certain drawing-room about a week ago,” I said.  “‘We were just speaking about you,’ exclaimed my hostess.  ‘Is not this yours?’  She pointed to an article in a certain magazine lying open on the table.  ‘No,’ I replied; ‘one or two people have asked me that same question.  It seems to me rather an absurd article,’ I added.  ‘I cannot say I thought very much of it,’ agreed my hostess.”

“I can’t help it,” said the Old Maid.  “I shall always dislike a girl who deliberately sells herself for money.”

“But what else is there to sell herself for?” asked the Minor Poet.

“She should not sell herself at all,” retorted the Old Maid, with warmth.  “She should give herself, for love.”

“Are we not in danger of drifting into a difference of opinion concerning the meaning of words merely?” replied the Minor Poet.  “We have all of us, I suppose, heard the story of the Jew clothier remonstrated with by the Rabbi for doing business on the Sabbath.  ‘Doing bithness!’ retorted the accused with indignation; ‘you call thelling a thuit like that for eighteen shillings doing bithness!  By, ith’s tharity!’  This ‘love’ for which the maiden gives herself—let us be a little more exact—does it not include, as a matter of course, material more tangible?  Would not the adored one look somewhat astonished on discovering that, having given herself for ‘love,’ love was all that her lover proposed to give for her.  Would she not naturally exclaim: ‘But where’s the house, to say nothing of the fittings?  And what are we to live on’?”

“It is you now who are playing with words,” asserted the Old Maid.  “The greater includes the less.  Loving her, he would naturally desire—”

“With all his worldly goods her to endow,” completed for her the Minor Poet.  “In other words, he pays a price for her.  So far as love is concerned, they are quits.  In marriage, the man gives himself to the woman as the woman gives herself to the man.  Man has claimed, I am aware, greater liberty for himself; but the claim has always been vehemently repudiated by woman.  She has won her case.  Legally and morally now husband and wife are bound by the same laws.  This being so, her contention that she gives herself falls to the ground.  She exchanges herself.  Over and above, she alone of the twain claims a price.”

“Say a living wage,” corrected the Philosopher.  “Lazy rubbish lolls in petticoats, and idle stupidity struts in trousers.  But, class for class, woman does her share of the world’s work.  Among the poor, of the two it is she who labours the longer.  There is a many-versed ballad popular in country districts.  Often I have heard it sung in shrill, piping voice at harvest supper or barn dance.  The chorus runs—

A man’s work ’tis till set of sun,
But a woman’s work is never done!

“My housekeeper came to me a few months ago,” said the Woman of the World, “to tell me that my cook had given notice.  ‘I am sorry to hear it,’ I answered; ‘has she found a better place?’  ‘I am not so sure about that,’ answered Markham; ‘she’s going as general servant.’  ‘As general servant!’ I exclaimed.  ‘To old Hudson, at the coal wharf,’ answered Markham.  ‘His wife died last year, if you remember.  He’s got seven children, poor man, and no one to look after them.’  ‘I suppose you mean,’ I said, ‘that she’s marrying him.’  ‘Well, that’s the way she puts it,’ laughed Markham.  ‘What I tell her is, she’s giving up a good home and fifty pounds a year, to be a general servant on nothing a week.  But they never see it.’”

“I recollect her,” answered the Minor Poet, “a somewhat depressing lady.  Let me take another case.  You possess a remarkably pretty housemaid—Edith, if I have it rightly.”

“I have noticed her,” remarked the Philosopher.  “Her manners strike me as really quite exceptional.”

“I never could stand any one about me with carroty hair,” remarked the Girton Girl.

“I should hardly call it carroty,” contended the Philosopher.  “There is a golden tint of much richness underlying, when you look closely.”

“She is a very good girl,” agreed the Woman of the World; “but I am afraid I shall have to get rid of her.  The other woman servants don’t get on with her.”

“Do you know whether she is engaged or not?” demanded the Minor Poet.

“At the present moment,” answered the Woman of the World, “she is walking out, I believe, with the eldest son of the ‘Blue Lion.’  But she is never adverse to a change.  If you are really in earnest about the matter—”

“I was not thinking of myself,” said the Minor Poet.  “But suppose some young gentleman of personal attractions equal to those of the ‘Blue Lion,’ or even not quite equal, possessed of two or three thousand a year, were to enter the lists, do you think the ‘Blue Lion’ would stand much chance?”

“Among the Upper Classes,” continued the Minor Poet, “opportunity for observing female instinct hardly exists.  The girl’s choice is confined to lovers able to pay the price demanded, if not by the beloved herself, by those acting on her behalf.  But would a daughter of the Working Classes ever hesitate, other things being equal, between Mayfair and Seven Dials?”

“Let me ask you one,” chimed in the Girton Girl.  “Would a bricklayer hesitate any longer between a duchess and a scullery-maid?”

“But duchesses don’t fall in love with bricklayers,” returned the Minor Poet.  “Now, why not?  The stockbroker flirts with the barmaid—cases have been known; often he marries her.  Does the lady out shopping ever fall in love with the waiter at the bun-shop?  Hardly ever.  Lordlings marry ballet girls, but ladies rarely put their heart and fortune at the feet of the Lion Comique.  Manly beauty and virtue are not confined to the House of Lords and its dependencies.  How do you account for the fact that while it is common enough for the man to look beneath him, the woman will almost invariably prefer her social superior, and certainly never tolerate her inferior?  Why should King Cophetua and the Beggar Maid appear to us a beautiful legend, while Queen Cophetua and the Tramp would be ridiculous?”

“The simple explanation is,” expounded the Girton Girl, “woman is so immeasurably man’s superior that only by weighting him more or less heavily with worldly advantages can any semblance of balance be obtained.”

“Then,” answered the Minor Poet, “you surely agree with me that woman is justified