I leaned over and looked at him—he was quite still. The room was reeling, or was it that she was going to faint? She recovered herself with a supreme effort. The house was full of aunts, uncles, and cousins meandering about, stuffed until their seams and zippers were bursting. How to hold her, how to keep her at his side; this was the problem with which he struggled. She knew the significance: the red corpuscle was being burnt out by the fires of alcohol. 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. “And as for praying for faith—this sort of monologue is about as near as any one of my sort ever gets to prayer.
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