Six
peeresses had consented to attend, and speak for them.
Likely enough that there were good-for-nothing, cockered menials imposing
upon incompetent mistresses. There were pampered slaves in Rome. But
these others. These poor little helpless sluts. There were thousands
such in every city, over-worked and under-fed, living lonely,
pleasureless lives. They must be taught to speak in other voices than
the dulcet tones of peeresses. By the light of the guttering candles,
from their chill attics, they should write to her their ill-spelt
visions.
She had reached a quiet, tree-bordered road, surrounding a great park.
Lovers, furtively holding hands, passed her by, whispering.
She would write books. She would choose for her heroine a woman of the
people. How full of drama, of tragedy must be their stories: their
problems the grim realities of life, not only its mere sentimental
embroideries. The daily struggle for bare existence, the ever-shadowing
menace of unemployment, of illness, leaving them helpless amid the
grinding forces crushing them down on every side.
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