‘Nor a great woman painter.’
‘Rosa Bonheur.’
‘Nor a discoverer in science.’
‘Mrs. Somerville.’
‘Nor a solitary musical composer.’
The girl was silent.
‘Yet all these fields have been as open to them as to men, have they not, witch?’
Marjorie Bartrand had passed into the garden. She stood impatiently tapping a slender foot on the turf and looking up, her arms folded, an expression on her face curiously like that of old Andros, at a strip of crescent moon that showed between the cedar branches.
‘A new moon. I curtsey to her, twice, thrice, and I wish a wish!’
‘Did you hear my question, witch? In poetry, art, music, have women not had just as ample chances as men?’