"You would make of us goods and chattels," cried the Girton Girl.

"I would make of you what you are," returned the Minor Poet, "the
priestesses of Nature's temple, leading man to the worship of her
mysteries. An American humorist has described marriage as the
craving of some young man to pay for some young woman's board and
lodging. There is no escaping from this definition; let us accept
it. It is beautiful--so far as the young man is concerned. He
sacrifices himself, deprives himself, that he may give. That is
love. But from the woman's point of view? If she accept thinking
only of herself, then it is a sordid bargain on her part. To
understand her, to be just to her, we must look deeper. Not sexual,
but maternal love is her kingdom. She gives herself not to her
lover, but through her lover to the great Goddess of the Myriad
Breasts that shadows ever with her guardian wings Life from the
outstretched hand of Death."

"She may be a nice enough girl from Nature's point of view," said
the Old Maid; "personally, I shall never like her."



CHAPTER IV



"What is the time?" asked the Girton Girl.

I looked at my watch. "Twenty past four," I answered.