But such is not the luck of woman. Too often she is regarded as a perambulatory dust bin, and packets of bread the worse for wear, mouldy potatoes, cheese rinds, are thrust upon her, thus clearing the pantry and poulticing the faint sense of reproach that sometimes attacks the amply nurtured. But make no mistake; those cruelly deceptive packages, unacceptable to man or beast, only serve to dishearten. I can imagine no greater nor more cruel disappointment, than awaits the poor woman who undoes the brown paper and white string so thoughtfully provided by the villa resident, only to discover the spring cleanings of the larder.

It is not for food alone that the outcast comes to the back door. There is always the lingering hope that a pair of boots may come her way. But since the war, such gifts are very rare and very precious, and indeed as a fellow outcast, some fifteen years upon the road, assured me, it is but seldom nowadays that you get so much as an old skirt.