It developed her on the wrong
lines--against her nature. This cry of the unsexed: that woman must
always be the paid servant instead of the helper of man--paid for being
mother, paid for being wife! Why not carry it to its logical conclusion,
and insist that she should be paid for her embraces? That she should
share in man's labour, in his hopes, that was the true comradeship. What
mattered it, who held the purse-strings!
Her room was always kept ready for her. Often she would lie there,
watching the moonlight creep across the floor; and a curious feeling
would come to her of being something wandering, incomplete. She would
see as through a mist the passionate, restless child with the rebellious
eyes to whom the room had once belonged; and later the strangely self-
possessed girl with that impalpable veil of mystery around her who would
stand with folded hands, there by the window, seeming always to be
listening. And she, too, had passed away. The tears would come into her
eyes, and she would stretch out yearning arms towards their shadowy
forms.
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