the like keep a man bound. But conscience and habit--detestable
habit--and fear of public opinion generally hold him.'

'All this is very interesting,' said Rhoda, with grave irony.
'By-the-bye, under the head of detestable habit you would put love of
children?'

Barfoot hesitated.

'That's a motive I oughtn't to have left out. Yet I believe, for most
men, it is represented by conscience. The love of children would not
generally, in itself, be strong enough to outweigh matrimonial
wretchedness. Many an intelligent and kind-hearted man has been driven
from his wife notwithstanding thought for his children. He provides for
them as well as he can--but, and even for their sakes, he must save
himself.'

The expression of Rhoda's countenance suddenly changed. An extreme
mobility of facial muscles was one of the things in her that held
Everard's attention.

'There's something in your way of putting it that I don't like,' she
said, with much frankness; 'but of course I agree with you in the
facts. I am convinced that most marriages are hateful, from every point
of view. But there will be no improvement until women have revolted
against marriage, from a reasonable conviction of its hatefulness.'

'I wish you all success--most sincerely I do.'

He paused, looked about the room, and stroked his ear. Then, in a grave
tone,--

'My own ideal of marriage involves perfect freedom on both sides. Of
course it could only be realized where conditions are favourable;
poverty and other wretched things force us so often to sin against our
best beliefs. But there are plenty of people who might marry on these
ideal terms. Perfect freedom, sanctioned by the sense of intelligent
society, would abolish most of the evils we have in mind. But women
must first be civilized; you are quite right in that.'

The door opened, and Miss Barfoot came in. She glanced from one to the
other, and without speaking gave her hand to Everard.

'How is your patient?' he asked.

'A little better, I think. It is nothing dangerous. Here's a letter
from your brother Tom. Perhaps I had better read it at once; there may
be news you would like to hear.'

She sat down and broke the envelope. Whilst she was reading the letter
to herself, Rhoda quietly left the room.

'Yes, there is news,' said Miss Barfoot presently, 'and of a
disagreeable kind. A few weeks ago--before writing, that is--he was
thrown off a horse and had a rib fractured.'

'Oh? How is he go