d of space for its black-and-white assertion; the deep,
bright blue carpet, soft as sleep, on the mirror-shining parquet; the
long low bookcases with their glass doors; the few perfect flowers, with
their reflection floating on polished walnut surfaces as if drowned in
sherry.

The meal itself pleased as being in some sense classical, though she
could not see why that adjective should occur to her. There was no white
cloth, and the bright silver and delicate wineglasses, and the little
dishes of coloured glass piled with wet green olives, stood among their
images on a gleaming table. The food was all either very hot or very
cold. She had two helps of everything, but at the same time she was
being appalled by the bareness of the room. Her intuition informed that
if a violent soul became terrified lest its own violence should provoke
disorder it would probably make a violent effort towards order by
throwing nearly everything out of the window, and that its habitation
would look very much like this. She knitted her brows and said "Imphm"
to herself; and her doubts were confirmed by Marion's vehement
exclamation, "Oh, when will Richard come! I wish he would come soon."
Her perfect, her so rightly old mother would have said, "It'll be nice
for you, dear, when Richard comes," and would not have clouded her
dreams of his coming with the threat of passionate competition for his
notice.

She said stiffly, looking down on her plate, "We're awful reactionary,
letting our whole lives revolve round a man."

"Reactionary?" repeated Marion. It had always been Ellen's complaint
that grown-up people took what the young say contemptuously, but to have
her remarks treated with quite such earnest consideration filled her for
some reason with uneasiness. "I don't think so. If I had a daughter who
was as wonderful as Richard I would let my life revolve round her. But I
don't know. Perhaps I'm reactionary. Because I don't really believe that
any woman could be as wonderful as Richard; do you?"

Ellen had always suspected that this woman was not quite sound on the
Feminist question. "Maybe not as wonderful as Richard is," she said
stoutly, "but as wonderful as any other man."

"Do you really think so?" asked Marion. "Women are such dependent
things. They're dependent on their weak frames and their personal
relationships. Illness can make a woman's sun go out so easily. And
then, since personal relationships are the most imperfect things i