” 162 “Mmmm-hmmm. You do not love your husband, you have married him for a position —to escape from—things which you feared. He seemed to stay away from her because she was so cold and formal towards him, addressing him as Mister McCloskey as if she were an Irish maid. She was glad to join in the stream of hurrying homeward workers that was now welling out of a thousand places of employment, and to imitate their driven, preoccupied haste. I hope that you did not permit her to feed?” “But I did! I did!” She sobbed. In the grate were some charred fragments of a marriage certificate. Miss Moffatt, the history and moral instruction mistress, was particularly explicit upon this score, and they all agreed in indicating contempt and pity for girls whose minds ran on such matters, and who betrayed it in their conversation or dress or bearing. “It’s Ennison, isn’t it?” he exclaimed. One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing.
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