Though hoarse War’s eagle on him perch,
Quickened with guilty lightnings—there
It shall in vain for terror search,
Where a child’s eyes beneath bloody hair
Gaze purely through the dingy air.
She closed the book, and we were silent for a moment, in which I felt within myself curious little surges of sympathy breaking over rocks of difference. And then she said: “Well?”
“Cornelia,” I answered, “you were right. The idea of chastity has been challenged, is being challenged, on all sides, in many ways, for many reasons.”
I made a discreet summary of my discoveries, and concluded: “Current fiction reflects a condition bordering on anarchy.”
“Couldn’t one know that without making an investigation, without ploughing through these dreadful books?”
“Perhaps,” I responded; “but, Cornelia, I think you are wrong in an important respect. I think there has been a real change in standards, and that even very nice people no longer think just as they used to think. At least, they no longer say what they used to say, and they are immeasurably more tolerant of what other people think.”