My son wanted to marry a woman of thirty in a tobacconist’s shop. He had barely settled at his desk in his library, when he was disturbed by two morning callers. They simply understood there was a greater need to get over the past than to talk about it. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. There was nothing to be learned from her face. "A little, Sir," replied the executioner, with a grim smile. She had heard of women journalists, women writers, and so forth; but she was not even admitted to the presence of the editors she demanded to see, and by no means sure that if she had been she could have done any work they might have given her.
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