It was a castoff of Shari’s from her brief obsession with sewing. Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall. By his side sat a remarkably stout dame, to whom he paid as much attention as it was in his iron nature to pay. “Why should women be dependent on men?” she asked; and the question was at once converted into a system of variations upon the theme of “Why are things as they are?”—“Why are human beings viviparous?”—“Why are people hungry thrice a day?”—“Why does one faint at danger?” She stood for a time looking at the dry limbs and still human face of that desiccated unwrapped mummy from the very beginnings of social life. We shall have—hardly any money. But perhaps he was right not to tell you the truth. She nodded.
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