They talked for a time about domestic matters.  Joan had established herself in furnished rooms in a quiet street of pleasant Georgian houses just behind the Abbey; a member of Parliament and his wife occupied the lower floors, the landlord, a retired butler, and his wife, an excellent cook, confining themselves to the basement and the attics.  The remaining floor was tenanted by a shy young man—­a poet, so the landlady thought, but was not sure.  Anyhow he had long hair, lived with a pipe in his mouth, and burned his lamp long into the night.  Joan had omitted to ask his name.  She made a note to do so.

They discussed ways and means.  Joan calculated she could get through on two hundred a year, putting aside fifty for dress.  Madge was doubtful if this would be sufficient.  Joan urged that she was “stock size” and would be able to pick up “models” at sales; but Madge, measuring her against herself, was sure she was too full.

“You will find yourself expensive to dress,” she told her, “cheap things won’t go well on you; and it would be madness, even from a business point of view, for you not to make the best of yourself.”

“Men stand more in awe of a well-dressed woman than they do even of a beautiful woman,” Madge was of opinion.  “If you go into an office looking dowdy they’ll beat you down.  Tell them the price they are offering you won’t keep you in gloves for a week and they’ll be ashamed of themselves.  There’s nothing infra dig. in being mean to the poor; but not to sympathize with the rich stamps you as middle class.”  She laughed.

Joan was worried.  “I told Dad I should only ask him for enough to make up two hundred a year,” she explained.  “He’ll laugh at me for not knowing my own mind.”

“I should let him,” advised Madge.  She grew thoughtful again.  “We cranky young women, with our new-fangled, independent ways, I guess we hurt the old folks quite enough as it is.”

The bell rang and Madge opened the door herself.  It turned out to be Flossie.  Joan had not seen her since they had been at Girton together, and was surprised at Flossie’s youthful “get up.”  Flossie explained, and without waiting for any possible attack flew to her own defence.

“The revolution that the world is waiting for,” was Flossie’s opinion, “is the providing of every man and woman with a hundred and fifty a year.  Then we shall all be able to afford to be noble and high-minded.  As it is, nine-tenths of the contemptible things we do comes from the necessity of our having to earn our living.  A hundred and fifty a year would deliver us from evil.”

“Would there not still be the diamond dog-collar and the motor car left to tempt us?” suggested Madge.

“Only the really wicked,” contended Flossie.  “It would classify us.  We should know then which were the sheep and which the goats.  At present we’re all jumbled together:  the ungodly who sin out of mere greed and rapacity, and the just men compelled to sell their birthright of fine instincts for a mess of meat and potatoes.”