"Men have accomplished great things without a woman's help," she said.
"Some men," he answered. "Artists and poets. They have the woman within
them. Men like myself--the mere fighter: we are incomplete in ourselves.
Male and female created He them. We are lost without our mate."
He was thinking only of himself. Had he no pity for her. So was she,
also, useless without her mate. Neither was she of those, here and
there, who can stand alone. Her task was that of the eternal woman: to
make a home: to cleanse the world of sin and sorrow, make it a kinder
dwelling-place for the children that should come. This man was her true
helpmeet. He would have been her weapon, her dear servant; and she could
have rewarded him as none other ever could. The lamplight fell upon his
ruddy face, his strong white hands resting on the flimsy table. He
belonged to an older order than her own. That suggestion about him of
something primitive, of something not yet altogether tamed. She felt
again that slight thrill of fear that so strangely excited her. A mist
seemed to be obscuring all things.
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