It was Ennison, who loomed up through the shadows. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. Then she would have quiet times, in which she would say to herself, “Now look here! Let me think it all out!” For the first time, it seemed to her, she faced the facts of a woman’s position in the world—the meagre realities of such freedom as it permitted her, the almost unavoidable obligation to some individual man under which she must labor for even a foothold in the world. Hitherto she had seen it chiefly in pictures and other works of art, incidentally, and as a thing taken out of life. ” For a moment she was grave. ” “Not exactly,” he answered nervously.
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