“It’s better than being physically restrained ourselves,” Jeff philosophically suggested when we were alone. “They’ve given us a room—with no great possibility of escape—and personal liberty—heavily chaperoned. It’s better than we’d have been likely to get in a man-country.”
“Man-Country! Do you really believe there are no men here, you innocent? Don’t you know there must be?” demanded Terry.
“Ye—es,” Jeff agreed. “Of course—and yet—”
“And yet—what! Come, you obdurate sentimentalist—what are you thinking about?”
“They may have some peculiar division of labor we’ve never heard of,” I suggested. “The men may live in separate towns, or they may have subdued them—somehow—and keep them shut up. But there must be some.”
“That last suggestion of yours is a nice one, Van,” Terry protested. “Same as they’ve got us subdued and shut up! you make me shiver.”
“Well, figure it out for yourself, anyway you please. We saw plenty of kids, the first day, and we’ve seen those girls—”
“Real girls!” Terry agreed, in immense relief. “Glad you mentioned ’em. I declare, if I thought there was nothing in the country but those grenadiers I’d jump out the window.”
“Speaking of windows,” I suggested, “let’s examine ours.”
We looked out of all the windows. The blinds opened easily enough, and there were no bars, but the prospect was not reassuring.