"Don't you think, my dear, that on the whole your mother and I, who have lived longer and know more, are more likely to know when it is best that you should begin to know—this or that?"
The girl knitted her brows and seemed to be reading her answer out of the depths of the coals. She was on the verge of speaking, altered her mind and tried a different beginning.
"I think that every one must do their thinking—his thinking—for—oneself," she said awkwardly.
"You mean you can't trust?"
"It isn't trusting. But one knows best for oneself when one is hungry."
"And you find yourself hungry?"
"I want to find out for myself what all this trouble about votes and things means."
"And we starve you—intellectually?"
"You know I don't think that. But you are busy...."
"Aren't you being perhaps a little impatient, Eleanor? After all—you are barely eighteen.... We have given you all sorts of liberties."
Her silence admitted it. "But still," she said after a long pause, "there are other girls, younger than I am, in these things. They talk about—oh, all sorts of things. Freely....
"You've been awfully good to me," she said irrele-
