"Ah!" he exclaimed, as the painting was turned towards him. It was as if she had come upon the beautiful marble façade of a fairy palace, was invited to enter, and behind the door—nothing. Murder had become nothing to her. Jonathan smiled contemptuously. “My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child. Well, one must hope, that was all. 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.
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