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. “He means nothing!” She whispered loudly. ’ Then she came closer and put her hand on his chest so that it rested on the braid that decorated his scarlet coat. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. You really are extremely stupid, Melusine. I didn’t get it, why she put on the innocent act.
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