Well, as I have said, gloom cannot live in Singholm, and this I have found out by personal experience, for if I am quite cross and grumpy in London, I cannot resist the exhilaration that prevails at Singholm among London's underworld women.
I think I may say that our trustee was surprised at something else! But then he is a bachelor, and so of course does not understand the infinite resources of femininity.
"How nice they look," he said.

"How well they dress"; and, once again, "How clean and tidy they are; how well their colours blend!" Thank God for this! we hold no truce with dirt at Singholm; we bid dowdyism begone! avaunt! I will tell you a secret! Singholm demands respect for itself and self-respect for its inmates.
Our trustee's testimony is true; the women belonging to our association do look nice; when they are at Walton they rise to the occasion as if they were to the manner born.
When, with their cheap white or blue blouses, they sit under the palms in our drawing-room, all, even the oldest and poorest, neat--nay, smart if you will--they present a picture that can only be appreciated by those who know their lives.

Some people might find fault, but to me the colour and tone of the picture is perfect.
As there were seventy of them, there was room for variety, and they gave it! Look at them! There they sit as the shades of night are falling.
They have been out all day long, and have come in tired.

Are they peevish?
Not a bit! Are they downhearted?
No! There is my friend who makes no secret about it, and tells us that she is forty-six years of age; this is the first time she has ever seen the sea, and she laughs at the thought.

The sun has browned, reddened and roughened her face, and when I say, "How delicate you look," she bursts again into merry laughter, and the whole party join her.