Wood had the advantage of her husband in point of years, being on the sunny side of forty,—a period pronounced by competent judges to be the most fascinating, and, at the same time, most critical epoch of woman's existence,—whereas, he was on the shady side of fifty,—a term of life not generally conceived to have any special recommendation in female eyes. Her greatest exploit was the howling before the mid-day meal. She turned about, and was persecuted by visions, half memories, half dreams, of Ramage. For a time she brooded on the ideals and suggestions of the Socialists, on the vague intimations of an Endowment of Motherhood, of a complete relaxation of that intense individual dependence for women which is woven into the existing social order. They were in many respects so right; she clung to that, and shirked more and more the paradoxical conviction that they were also somehow, and even in direct relation to that rightness, absurd. His father and mother were a lawyer and a doctor, respectively. She had taken care he should have this momentous talk with her on a garden-seat commanded by the windows of the house. ” “How much do you owe them?” She knew forty pounds was a quite impossible sum for their neighbors.
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