” She looked around the apartment again. “It would have been rash and unwise,” she said at the end of a meditation. While you live in my house you must follow my ideas. I told her it was the end. Every eye seemed focussed upon her; and yet she had known the sensation to be the conceit of her imagination. Their small talk continued. She had never seen her sitting on tables nor heard her discussing theology, and had failed to observe that the graceful figure was a natural one and not due to ably chosen stays. For a time she brooded on the ideals and suggestions of the Socialists, on the vague intimations of an Endowment of Motherhood, of a complete relaxation of that intense individual dependence for women which is woven into the existing social order. Perhaps I deceived you about it.
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