“I did not come with my husband,” said Cecil; “he is gone to Willansborough to meet the architect.”
“Ah, about the new buildings. I do hope and trust the opportunity will not be wasted, and that the drainage will be provided for.”
“You are longing to have a voice there,” said Lady Tyrrell, laughing.
“I am. It is pre-eminently a woman’s question, and this is a great opportunity. I shall talk to every one. Little Pettitt, the hair-dresser, has some ground there, and he is the most intelligent of the tradesmen. I gave him one of those excellent little hand-bills, put forth by the Social Science Committee, on sanitary arrangements. I thought of asking you to join us in ordering some down, and never letting a woman leave our work-room without one.”
“You couldn’t do better, I am sure,” said Lady Tyrrell; “only, what’s the use of preaching to the poor creatures to live in good houses, when their landlords won’t build them, and they must live somewhere?”
“Make them coerce the landlords,” said Mrs. Duncombe; “that’s the only way. Upheave the masses from beneath.”
“But that’s an earthquake,” said Cecil.
“Earthquakes are sometimes wholesome.”
“But the process is not so agreeable that we had not rather avert it,” said Lady Tyrrell.
“All ours at Dunstone are model cottages,” said Cecil; “it is my father’s great hobby.”