The locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had. She opened and read it at once. He was afraid if he stayed that he would make a fool of himself. He did not leave much of an 17 impression. 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. ’ Shock ripped through Charvill’s chest. “I say!” he cried. He did not so much cut into this conversation as loom over it, for he was a tall, if rather studiously stooping, man. “Oh, but life is difficult!” she groaned.
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