She had been so young then. One side of the face was white with foamy lather and the other ruddy-cheeked and blue-jawed. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. She had dreaded the beginning of this hour. She thought that women were not made for the struggle and turmoil of life— their place was the little world, the home; that their power lay not in votes but in influence over men and in making the minds of their children fine and splendid. Kneebone's cheeks glowed with rage, and he set down the wine untasted, while Blueskin resumed his song.
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