preparing themselves to be pharmaceutical chemists; two others had been aided by her to open a bookseller's shop; and several who had clerkships in view received an admirable training at her school in Great Portland Street.
Thither every weekday morning Miss Barfoot and Rhoda repaired; they arrived at nine o'clock, and with an hour's interval work went on until five.
Entering by the private door of a picture-cleaner's shop, they ascended to the second story, where two rooms had been furnished like comfortable offices; two smaller on the floor above served for dressing-rooms. In one of the offices, typewriting and occasionally other kinds of work that demanded intelligence were carried on by three or four young women regularly employed. To superintend this department was Miss Nunn's chief duty, together with business correspondence under the principal's direction. In the second room Miss Barfoot instructed her pupils, never more than three being with her at a time. A bookcase full of works on the Woman Question and allied topics served as a circulating library; volumes were lent without charge to the members of this little society. Once a month Miss Barfoot or Miss Nunn, by turns, gave a brief address on some set subject; the hour was four o'clock, and about a dozen hearers generally assembled. Both worked very hard. Miss Barfoot did not look upon her enterprise as a source of pecuniary profit, but she had made the establishment more than self-supporting. Her pupils increased in number, and the working department promised occupation for a larger staff than was at present engaged. The young women in general answered their friend's expectations, but of course there were disappointing instances. One of these had caused Miss Barfoot special distress. A young girl whom she had released from a life of much hardship, and who, after a couple of months' trial, bade fair to develop noteworthy ability, of a sudden disappeared. She was without relatives in London, and Miss Barfoot's endeavours to find her proved for several weeks very futile. Then came news of her; she was living as the mistress of a married man. Every effort was made to bring her back, but the girl resisted; presently she again passed out of sight, and now more than a year had elapsed since Miss Barfoot's last interview with her.
This Monday morning, among letters delivered at the house, was one from the strayed girl. Miss Barfoot read it in private, and throughout the day remained unusually grave. At five o'clock, when staff and pupils had all departed, she sat for a while in meditation, then spoke to Rhoda, who was glancing over a book by the window.
'Here's a letter I should like you to read.'
'Something that has been troubling you since morning, isn't it?'
'Yes.'
Rhoda took the sheet and quickly ran through its contents. Her face hardened, and she threw down the letter with a smile of contempt.
'What do you advise?' asked the elder woman, closely observing her.
'An answer in two lines—with a cheque enclosed, if you see fit.'
'Does that really meet the case?'
'More than meets it, I should say.'
Miss Barfoot pondered.
'I am doubtful. That is a letter of despair, and I can't close my ears to it.'
'You had an affection for the girl. Help her, by all means, if you feel compelled to. But you would hardly dream of taking her back again?'
'That's the point. Why shouldn't I?'
'For one thing,' replied Rhoda, looking coldly down upon her friend, 'you will never do any good with her. For another, she isn't a suitable companion for the girls she would meet here.'
'I can't be sure of either objection. She acted with deplorable rashness, with infatuation, but I never discovered any sign of evil in her. Did you?'
'Evil? Well, what does the word mean? I am not a Puritan, and I don't judge her as the ordinary woman would. But I think she has put herself altogether beyond our sympathy. She was twenty-two years old—no child—and she acted with her eyes open. No deceit was practised with her. She knew the man had a wife, and she was base enough to accept a share of his attentions. Do you advocate polygamy? That is an intelligible position, I admit. It is one way of meeting the social difficulty. But not mine.'
'My dear Rhoda, don't enrage yourself.'
'I will try not to.'
'But I can't see the temptation to do so. Come and sit down, and talk quietly. No, I have no fondness for polygamy. I find it very hard to understand how she could act as she did. But a mistake, however wretched, mustn't condemn a woman for life. That's the way of the world, and decidedly it mustn't be ours.'
'On this point I practically agree with the world.'
'I see you do, and it astonishes me. You are going through curious changes, in several respects. A year ago you didn't speak of her like this.'
'Partly because I didn't know you well enough to speak my mind. Partly yes, I have changed a good deal, no doubt. But I should never have proposed to take her by the hand and let bygones be bygones. That is an amiable impulse, but anti-social.'
'A favourite word on your lips just now, Rhoda. Why is it anti-social?'
'Because one of the supreme social needs of our day is the education of women in self-respect and self-restraint. There are plenty of people—men chiefly, but a few women also of a certain temperament—who cry for a reckless individualism in these matters. They would tell you that she behaved laudably, that she was living out herself—and things of that kind. But I didn't think you shared such views.'
'I don't, altogether. "The education of women in self-respect." Very well. Here is a poor woman whose self-respect has given way under grievous temptation. Circumstances have taught her that she made a wild mistake. The man gives her up, and bids her live as she can; she is induced to beggary. Now, in that position a girl is tempted to sink still further. The letter of two lines and an enclosed cheque would as likely as not plunge her into depths from which she could never be rescued. It would assure her that there was no hope. On the other hand, we have it in our power to attempt that very education of which you speak. She has brains, and doesn't belong to the vulgar. It seems to me that you are moved by illogical impulses—and certainly anything but kind ones.'
Rhoda only grew more stubborn.
'You say she yielded to a grievous temptation. What temptation? Will it bear putting into words?'
'Oh yes, I think it will,' answered Miss Barfoot, with her gentlest smile. 'She fell in love with the man.'
'Fell in love!' Concentration of scorn was in this echo. 'Oh, for what isn't that phrase responsible!'
'Rhoda, let me ask you a question on which I have never ventured. Do you know what it is to be in love?'
Miss Nunn's strong features were moved as if by a suppressed laugh; the colour of her cheeks grew very slightly warm.
'I am a normal human being,' she answered, with an impatient gesture. 'I understand perfectly well what the phrase signifies.'
'That is no answer, my dear. Have you ever been in love with any man?'
'Yes. When I was fifteen.'
'And not since,' rejoined the other, shaking her head and smiling. 'No, not since?'
'Thank Heaven, no!'
'Then you are not very well able to judge this case. I, on the other hand, can judge it with the very largest understanding. Don't smile so witheringly, Rhoda. I shall neglect your advice for once.'
'You will bring this girl back, and continue teaching her as before?'
'We have no one here that knows her, and with prudence she need never be talked about by those of our friends who did.'
'Oh, weak—weak—weak!'
'For once I must act independently.'
'Yes, and at a stroke change the whole character of your work. You never proposed keeping a reformatory. Your aim is to help chosen girls, who promise to be of some use in the world. This Miss Royston represents the profitless average—no, she is below the average. Are you so blind as to imagine that any good will ever come of such a person? If you wish to save her from the streets, do so by all means. But to put her among your chosen