five in the morning and after half-past six in the evening.  We had to work just as hard as the men and boys in the mill.  We got a great deal less money and a great deal less decent treatment; but to make up we had to slave in the early morning and late at night, while the men either snored or smoked.  I was all right.  But Susan wasn’t.  And a lot of women weren’t, especially young mothers with babies.  So I learnt typewriting on the quiet, and left it all to try and find out whether something couldn’t be done.  I soon found out—­after I’d heard Rosamund speak.  That’s the reason I’m not mending stockings.  I’m not blaming anybody.  It’s no one’s fault, really.  It certainly isn’t men’s fault.  Only something has to be altered, and most people detest alterations.  Still, they do get done somehow in the end.  And so there you are!”

“I should love to help,” said Audrey.  “I expect I’m not much good, but I should love to.”

She dared not refer to her wealth, of which, in fact, she was rather ashamed.

“Well, you can help, all right,” said Jane Foley, rising.  “Are you a member?”

“No.  But I will be to-morrow.”

“They’ll give you something to do,” said Jane Foley.

“Oh yes!” remarked Miss Ingate.  “They’ll keep you busy enough—­and charge you for it.”

Susan Foley began to clear the table.

“Supper at nine,” said she curtly.

CHAPTER XXII

THE DETECTIVE

Audrey and Miss Ingate were writing letters to Paris.  Jane Foley had gone forth again to a committee meeting, which was understood to be closely connected with a great Liberal demonstration shortly to be held in a Midland fortress of Liberalism.  Miss Nickall, in accordance with medical instructions, had been put to bed.  Susan Foley was in the basement, either clearing up tea or preparing supper.

Miss Ingate, putting her pen between her teeth and looking up from a blotting-pad, said to Audrey across the table: 

“Are you writing to Musa?”

“Certainly not!” said Audrey, with fire.  “Why should I write to Musa?” She added:  “But you can write to him, if you like.”

“Oh!  Can I?” observed Miss Ingate, grinning.

Audrey knew of no reason why she should blush before Miss Ingate, yet she began to blush.  She resolved not to blush; she put all her individual force into the enterprise of resisting the tide of blood to her cheeks, but the tide absolutely ignored her, as the tide of ocean might have ignored her.

She rose from the table, and, going into a corner, fidgeted with the electric switches, turning certain additional lights off and on.

“All right,” said Miss Ingate; “I’ll write to him.  I’m sure he’ll expect something.  Have you finished your letters?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what’s this one on the table, then?”

“I shan’t go on with that one.”