The both of them puttering about the tidy two-story house, Lucy would serve them both steaming cups of tea in the front parlor. It was you, of course, whom he wanted. The colour slowly left her cheeks, the lines of her mouth hardened. But think of the disillusionment! Except for our sex we have minds like men, desires like men. Only one thing emerged with any reasonable clarity in her mind at once, and that was that unless she was saved from drowning by an unmarried man, in which case the ceremony is unavoidable, or totally destitute of under-clothing, and so driven to get a trousseau, in which hardship a trousseau would certainly be “ripping,” marriage was an experience to be strenuously evaded. “No, Lucy, it isn’t fine and I am sorry. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels.
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