"It is no matter of sex," he declared. "We all make our own choice. We
are what we make of ourselves."

"It is not true," she answered, bluntly. "Not with us, at any rate. We
are what our menkind make of us. Oh, what cowards you all are."

"Cowards?"

"Yes. You do what mischief you choose, and then soothe your conscience
with platitudes. You will take hold of pleasure with both hands, but your
shoulders are not broad enough for the pack of responsibility. Don't look
at me as though I were a mile off, Lawrence, as though this were simply
an impersonal discussion. I am speaking to you--of you. You avoid me
whenever you can. I don't often get a chance of speaking to you. You
shall listen now. You live the life of a poet and a scholar, they tell
me. You live in a beautiful home, you take care that nothing ugly or
disturbing shall come near you. You are pleased with it, aren't you? You
think yourself better than other men. Well, you are making a big mistake.
A man doesn't have to answer for his own life only. He has to carry the
burden of the lives his influence has wrecked and spoilt. I know just
what you think of me. I am a middle-aged woman, clinging to my youth and
pleasures--the sort of pleasures for which you have a vast contempt.
There isn't an hour of my days of which you wouldn't disapprove. I'm not
your sort of woman at all. And yet I was all right once, Lawrence, and
what I am now--" she paused, "what I am now--"

Hester came in, followed by a maid with the tea-tray. She looked from
one to the other a little anxiously. The atmosphere of the room seemed
charged with electricity. Mannering's face was grey. Her mother was
nervously crumpling into a ball her tiny lace handkerchief. Mrs.