But Sally was not of this blood. She is the
lamb that goes willing to the slaughter, the woman, whom a man like
Traill, when once he holds the trembling threads of her affection,
can drive to the uttermost.
"Then you give no liberty to a woman?" she said.
"No--not the liberty she talks about. Not the idea of liberty that
she gets from these suffragist pamphleteers."
"I'd like you to meet my friend, Miss Hallard," said Sally.
"Why? Who's Miss Hallard? What is she?"
"She's an artist--I share rooms with her."
"Why would you like me to meet her?"
"I'd like to hear you two argue. She thinks just the opposite. She
thinks--"
"I never argue with a woman," Traill interrupted.
"You think so poorly of us?" She tried to say it with spirit--struck
the flint in her eyes, contracted her lips to the hard, thin line.
"As women? No--the very best." Her looks did not worry him. Water
pouring over marble runs off as smoothly. "You want to be judged as
men--you never will be till you can cut your hair short and dress
the part. Clothes have the deuce of a lot to do with it. I can love
a woman, but, my God, I can't argue with her."
He leant back to let Berthe put the plates of soup before them, and
Sally watched his face.
Pages:
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161