h clay
dolls. And Mary McCullom----"

"Is submerged in tea--past resuscitation.... That modern madness will
pass, too, dear. 'Member how those Italian giants used to have periods
of madness while they decorated the everlasting cathedrals? No modern
man could come into your studio and break your work for long, Vina. You
know we promised each other that none could." Beth shivered at her
memory. Vina had made her forget for a moment.

"But we said in our haste then, that all men were just natives----"

"Many wise women say so at their leisure----"

"But Mary McCullom----"

"Taboo----"

"Well, then, _he_ made me see there were real men in the world," Vina
declared with slow defiance.

"Oh."

"You're sure to misunderstand. Please listen carefully. He is as far
_to me_--from being that kind of a real man--as a mere native. Do you
understand?... I could worship through him, as through a pure
priest----"

"Vina, you're a passionate idealist!"

"You don't know him. I think he is beyond sex--or going beyond. Perhaps
he doesn't know it.... Oh, we've been hurt a little, by boys who failed
to grow into men, and so we took to our breasts painted and molded
images, saying there _are_ no real men. And here in our midst comes
more than we ask or dream--a Prophet in the making. That's very clear
to me, and you'll see it!... The result--a clearer vision into clay and
its possibilities, and an expanded conception of my subjects--that's
one point and a wonderful one. I'm grateful, but there's another....
Oh, Beth, I'm sick unto nausea with repression. Why, should I deny it;
I want a real lover among men, and I want live dolls!"

A trenchant moment to Beth Truba. No one, so well as she, could
perceive the tragedy of this gifted woman, whom the right man had
missed in the crush of the world's women. A real artist, but a greater
woman.... More than this was revealed to Beth. Her own Shadowy Sister
was speaking to her with Vina Nettleton's tongue, as Beth Truba could
never speak of another...

The Grey One, too, had her tragedy; and Kate Wilkes had hers long ago,
a strong woman, whose cup of bitterness had overflowed in her veins;
who had come so to despise men, as to profess disliking children.
Indeed, that moment, Beth Truba seemed to hear the whispered
affirmations of tragedy from evolved women everywhere....And whither
was tending the race, if only the Wordlings of the world were to be
satisfied--if Wordlings were all that