She thought that women were not made for the struggle and turmoil of life— their place was the little world, the home; that their power lay not in votes but in influence over men and in making the minds of their children fine and splendid. “I have made no progress with my work,” she said slowly, “and the money was gone. Why was she noting things like this? Capes seemed selfpossessed and elaborately genial and commonplace, but she knew him to be nervous by a little occasional clumsiness, by the faintest shadow of vulgarity in the urgency of his hospitality. What hotel should she go to? If she told a cabman to drive to an hotel, any hotel, what would he do—or say? He might drive to something dreadfully expensive, and not at all the quiet sort of thing she required. Paris copies London. “He took my arms and legs!” She lifted the rock from Rhea’s torso. He dashed against the screen door before she could catch him and made the veranda. Many little things had contributed to that decision. No more did she offer her forehead for the good-night kiss.
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