“You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. “It’s the warming up of the year, the coming of the light mornings, the way in which everything begins to run about and begin new things. It is better as it is. Nature is a mother; her sympathies have always been feminist, and she has tempered the man to the shorn woman. Sir John filled his glass with trembling hand. “I know that our social order is dreadful enough,” he said, “and sacrifices all that is best and most beautiful in life. And then suddenly—a relief. She had been built for canvas and oil-lamps, and this new thingumajig that kept her nose snoring at eight knots when normally she was able to boil along at ten, and these unblinking things they called lamps (that neither smoked nor smelled), irked and threatened to ruin her temper. " "Go on, tell me," he urged, enchanted.
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