’ *** Martha sniffed dolefully, scrubbing at her reddened eyes with a large square of damp linen. He wore a battered sunhelmet, a loin-cloth and a pair of dilapidated canvas shoes. And if the woman is not a rival, she must be—yes, that must be it. Profligate women are never reclaimed. She wondered even at this late day how she had been able to hold her maddening curiosity in check. She was obliged to concede that his features were pleasing, his strength and vitality attractive; and there was no denying how well this uniform of a militia suited his figure, which was lean and powerful both. 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. My heart fails me. You know you don’t mean it.
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