TO THE LIGHTHOUSEscattered about English drawing-rooms in thenineteenth century, had lisped so charmingly,had stormed so wildly, and all her wit and herbearing and her temper came from them, andnot from the sluggish English, or the coldScotch; but more profoundly she ruminated theother problem, of rich and poor, and the thingsshe saw with her own eyes, weekly, daily, hereor in London, when she visited this widow, orthat struggling wife in person with a bag onher arm, and a note-book and pencil with whichshe wrote down in columns carefully ruled forthe purpose wages and spendings, employmentand unemployment, in the hope that thus shewould cease to be a private woman whose charitywas half a sop to her own indignation, half arelief to her own curiosity, and become, whatwith her untrained mind she greatly admired, aninvestigator, elucidating the social problem.

Insoluble questions they were, it seemed to her,standing there, holding James by the hand. Hehad followed her into the drawing-room, thatyoung man they laughed at; he was standing bythe table, fidgeting with something, awkwardly,feeling himself out of things, as she knew withoutlooking round. They had all gone—the children;Minta Doyle and Paul Rayley; Augustus Car-michael; her husband—they had all gone. So she20

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