cate Venetian glass had gone the way of so many delicate dishes, down the dumb waiter shaft an hour ago. Marie didn't mean to break it, as she assured her mistress by dissolving in tears for some five minutes while more important matters waited. A particular sauce for the dessert depending on the delicacy of its flavouring, the editor must make herself. Well—after everything was all right, it was a composed and unperturbed and smiling hostess who extended the welcome to her invited company.
The guest of honour was a woman playwright whose problem play was one of the successes of last season. She has just finished another. That was why she could be here to-night. While she writes, no dinner invitation can lure her from her desk. "You see, I just have to do my work in the evening," she told us. "After midnight I write best. It's the only time I am sure that no one will interrupt with the announcement that my cousin from the West is here, or the steam pipes have burst, or some other event has come to pass in a busy day."
We had struck the domestic chord. Over the coffee we discussed a book that has stirred the world with its profound contribution to the interpretation of the woman movement. The author easily holds a place among the most famous. We all know her public life. One who knew her home life, told us more. She wrote that book in the intervals of doing her own housework. The same hand that held her inspired pen, washed the dishes and baked the bread and wielded the broom at her house—and made all
