“Did you hear anything?” she asked, as she listened intently.

“Hear what?”

“The door open downstairs.  Lowther’s been in such a time with Montague.”

“I suppose Lowther is confessing everything,” sighed Mrs Devitt.

“Nothing of the sort,” remarked Miss Spraggs.

“What do you mean?”

“No one ever does confess everything:  something is always kept back.”

“Don’t you think, Eva, you look at things from a very material point of view?”

Eva shrugged her narrow shoulders.  Mrs Devitt continued: 

“Now and again, you seem to ignore the good which is implanted in us all.”

“Perhaps because it’s buried so deep down that it’s difficult to see.”

Half an hour afterwards, it occurred to Mrs Devitt that she might have retorted, “What one saw depended on the power of one’s perceptions,” but just now, all she could think of to say was: 

“Quite so; but there’s so much good in the world, I wonder you don’t see more of it.”

“What are you reading?” asked Miss Spraggs, as she revised the draft of her letter.

The scribbling virgin often made a point of talking while writing, in order to show how little mental concentration was required for her literary efforts.

“An article on voluntary limitations of family.  It’s by the Bishop of Westmoreland.  He censures such practices:  I agree with him.”

Mrs Devitt spoke from her heart.  The daughter of a commercial house, which owed its prosperity to an abundant supply of cheap labour, she realised (although she never acknowledged it to herself) that the practices the worthy bishop condemned, if widely exercised, must, in course of time, reduce the number of hands eager to work for a pittance, and, therefore, the fat profits of their employers.

“So do I,” declared Miss Spraggs, who only wished she had the ghost of a chance of contributing (legitimately) to the sum of the population.

“There’s an admirable article about Carlyle in the same number of the National Review,” said Miss Spraggs presently.

“I never read anything about Carlyle,” declared Mrs Devitt.

Miss Spraggs raised her straight eyebrows.

“He didn’t get on with his wife,” said Mrs Devitt, in a manner suggesting that this fact effectually disposed in advance of any arguments Miss Spraggs might offer.

Soon after, Montague Devitt came into the room, to be received with inquiring glances by the two women.  He walked to the fireplace, where he stood in moody silence.

“Well?” said his wife presently.

“Well!” replied Devitt.

“What has Lowther confessed?”

“The usual.”

“Money?”

“And other things.”

“Ah!  What were the other things?”

“We’ll talk it over presently,” replied Montague, as he glanced at Miss Spraggs.

“Am I so very young and innocent that I shouldn’t learn what has happened?” asked Miss Spraggs, who, in her heart of hearts, enjoyed revelations of masculine profligacy.