not want anybody else's. There are no complications: one presumes
they draw lots and fall in love the moment they unscrew the paper.
They dance for awhile on grass which is never damp, and then into the
conveniently situated ivy-covered church they troop in pairs and are
wedded off hand by a white-haired clergyman, who is a married man
himself.

Ah, if the world were but a comic opera stage, there would be no need
for working women! As a matter of fact, so far as one can judge from
the front of the house, there are no working men either.

But outside the opera house in the muddy street Jack goes home to his
third floor back, or his chambers in the Albany, according to his
caste, and wonders when the time will come when he will be able to
support a wife. And Jill climbs on a penny 'bus, or steps into the
family brougham, and dreams with regret of a lost garden, where there
was just one man and just one woman, and clothes grew on a fig tree.

With the progress of civilization--utterly opposed as it is to all
Nature's intentions--the number of working women will increase. With
some friends the other day I was discussing motor-cars, and one
gentleman with sorrow in his voice--he is the type of Conservative
who would have regretted the passing away of the glacial period--
opined that motor-cars had come to stay.

"You mean," said another, "they have come to go." The working woman,
however much we may regret it, has come to go, and she is going it.
We shall have to accept her and see what can be done with her. One
thing is certain, we shall not solve the problem of the twentieth
century by regretting the simple sociology of the Stone Age.