“I don’t advocate this liberty for all mankind. Only for those who are worthy of it.”
“And what”—she laughed a little—“are the sure signs of worthiness? I think it would be very needful to know them.”
Everard kept a grave face.
“True. But a free union presupposes equality of position. No honest man would propose it, for instance, to a woman incapable of understanding all it involved, or incapable of resuming her separate life if that became desirable. I admit all the difficulties. One must consider those of feeling, as well as the material. If my wife should declare that she must be released, I might suffer grievously, but being a man of some intelligence, I should admit that the suffering couldn’t be helped; the brutality of enforced marriage doesn’t seem to me an alternative worth considering. It wouldn’t seem so to any woman of the kind I mean.”
Would she have the courage to urge one grave difficulty that he left aside? No. He fancied her about to speak, but she ended by offering him another cup of tea.
“After all, that is not your ideal?” he said.
“I haven’t to do with the subject at all,” Rhoda answered, with perhaps a trace of impatience. “My work and thought are for the women who do not marry—the “odd women” I call them. They alone interest me. One mustn’t undertake too much.”
“And you resolutely class yourself with them?”
“Of course I do.”
“And therefore you have certain views of life which I should like to change. You are doing good work, but I had rather see any other woman in the world devote her life to it. I am selfish enough to wish—”