"That word reminds me of poor old Halliday. You remember Halliday, don't you?"
In vexed silence, Rosamund shook her head.
"But I think you must have met him, in the old days. A tall, fair man—no? He talked a great deal about ideals, and meant to move the world. We lost sight of each other when I first left England, and only met again a day or two ago. He is married, and has three children, and looks fifty years old, though he can't be much more than thirty. He took me to see his wife—they live at Forest Hill."
Rosamund was not listening, and the speaker became aware of it. Having a purpose in what he was about to say, he gently claimed her attention.
"I think Mrs. Halliday is the kind of woman who would interest you. If ever any one had a purpose in life, she has."
"Indeed? And what?"
"To keep house admirably, and bring up her children as well as possible, on an income which would hardly supply some women with shoe-leather."
"Oh, that's very dreadful!"
"Very fine, it seems to me. I never saw a woman for whom I could feel more respect. Halliday and she suit each other perfectly; they would be the happiest people in England if they had any money. As he walked back with me to the station he talked about their difficulties. They can't afford to engage a good servant (if one exists nowadays), and cheap sluts have driven them frantic, so that Mrs. Halliday does everything with her own hands."
"It must be awful."
"Pretty hard, no doubt. She is an educated woman—otherwise, of course, she couldn't, and wouldn't, manage it. And, by-the-bye
