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ing twice a week, you see, to paint the dining-room;—it’s as easy for him as if we were living in Chelsea. And Hester is arranging to give a course of lectures this autumn.’

‘Splendid. That is splendid. If it’s really so. If Hester hasn’t deceived you about it in her wish to make us happy. — But I will take your word for it, dearest. What are the lectures to be about? Excellent, that Hester should be taking up her own work again.’

She must indeed go carefully. Clive knew that she had not cared for the small book on infant psychology that Hester had published in the second year of their marriage. It had been easier, when one saw such theories connected in all their abstract brutality with the dawning life of little Robin, to smile at them than to resent them; and in order that she should not show resentment, she had smiled. Clive must have seen her smile. They had never spoken of the book.

‘Oh, her special line, you know.—The modern emancipation of women; psycho-analysis; all that sort of thing.’ His voice was guarded.

‘Does she feel the emancipation accomplished?—or is there even more to do?’

‘A very great deal more to do; the acceptance of