Page:The White Peacock, Lawrence, 1911.djvu/440

432 “Have you already dined so far?” sang the Scottish poetess in her musical, plaintive manner.

“The only thing worth doing is producing,” said Lettie.

“Alas, that is what all the young folk are saying nowadays!” sighed the Irish musician.

“That is the only thing one finds any pleasure in—that is to say, any satisfaction,” continued Lettie, smiling, and turning to the two artists.

“Do you not think so?” she added.

“You do come to a point at last,” said the Scottish poetess, “when your work is a real source of satisfaction.”

“Do you write poetry then?” asked George of Lettie.

“I! Oh, dear no! I have tried strenuously to make up a Limerick for a competition, but in vain. So you see, I am a failure there. Did you know I have a son, though?—a marvellous little fellow, is he not, Leslie?—he is my work. I am a wonderful mother, am I not, Leslie?”

“Too devoted,” he replied.

“There!” she exclaimed in triumph—“When I have to sign my name and occupation in a visitor’s book, it will be ‘—— Mother.’ I hope my business will flourish,” she concluded, smiling.

There was a touch of ironical brutality in her now. She was, at the bottom, quite sincere. Having reached that point in a woman’s career when most, perhaps all of the things in life seem worthless and insipid, she had determined to put up with it, to ignore her own self, to empty her own potentialities into the vessel of another or others, and to live her