"I—I don't understand," faltered Sheila. "I don't understand what it is I mustn't do for Ted."
Alice North held her hands more closely and fixed her luminous eyes upon her—eyes which, to many before Sheila, had seemed to shine with the light of a beautiful soul: "You mustn't do for him the one thing that you and he will want most—you mustn't have children for him! My dear, you must be a mother with your brain—not with your body. You can't do both—at least, worthily—and you must give yourself to creation with your mind. There are women enough already to become mothers of the other sort!"
Sheila did not reply. Slowly the glow faded from her face, from her eyes. Slowly and listlessly she withdrew her hands from Mrs. North's fervid clasp and leaned back in her chair. Clearly the supreme moment had passed; the flame of her ardor had flickered out. Mrs. North glanced curiously at her. An instant before, the girl had been radiant, tremulous with aspiration and with hope. Now she was apathetic and cold, her spirit no more than a handful of ashes.
The silence lengthened—grew heavy with meaning. Alice North put out her hand again: "I trust I haven't intruded—offended?"
"Oh, no," said Sheila stiffly, "you have been very kind, and—I am sure—very wise." But her frank gaze had grown guarded; her whole manner had become that of defensive reserve.
Yes, clearly, the great moment was over; the drama was ended.
"What a queer girl," remarked Mrs. North! to Charlotte, when Sheila had gone. "I predicted a phenomenal future for her—I had her tingling to her finger tips. Then—quite suddenly—the light, the fire was quenched. And do what I would, I couldn't kindle it again. It was very strange—unless——"
"Unless——?"
"Unless she's going to have a child. I told her that she mustn't have children."
"You mean," cried Charlotte incredulously, "that you advised her to shirk the greatest experience possible to a woman? You advised her to forego that?"