Perhaps, in the far future, when generations of men had struggled and failed as he must now struggle and fail, woman would be, indeed, what she now made a pretence of being--the friend and companion--not the enemy and parasite of man.' "The end of it is, you see, Hugh went back to his wife, poor fellow.

It was his duty, as a married man.

Lord, Rachel," he concluded, "will it be like that when we're married ?" Instead of answering him she asked, "Why don't people write about the things they do feel ?" "Ah, that's the difficulty!" he sighed, tossing the book away.
"Well, then, what will it be like when we're married?
What are the things people do feel ?" She seemed doubtful.
"Sit on the floor and let me look at you," he commanded.

Resting her chin on his knee, she looked straight at him.
He examined her curiously.
"You're not beautiful," he began, "but I like your face.

I like the way your hair grows down in a point, and your eyes too--they never see anything.