In a convent, you understand, one is like a servant, even if one is a lady. “His love-making,” she remarked, “struck me as unconvincing. He dined, and then pleaded a political engagement. McClintock was in a gay mood at dinner that night; but he did not see fit to give these children the true reason. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. She went out into the hall, where she met the Jedsons in their kimonos. I wonder what men would say if we threw the mask aside—if we really told them what WE thought of them, really showed them what WE were.
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