“Why can’t we propagate by sexless spores, as the ferns do? We restrict each other, we badger each other, friendship is poisoned and buried under it!. As in a dream, Melusine saw her faithful footman struck, his headlong progress checked. “My hand! This isn’t the place. Come!” They went out together and he called a hansom. 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. The stranger looked at him as if strongly disposed to chastise his impertinence. A person of somewhat artificial graces and mannerisms, she was for once in her life perfectly natural. . But then the features changed. A creeping numbness invaded her. Perhaps Sir John is going to take the other one under his wing. She had expected sympathetic admiration, but instead the whole Widgett family, except Teddy, expressed a common dismay. .
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