content with just the bits of him that are left over from the
other things. I want a partnership. Marriage has changed since your day,
Auntie. Real marriage to-day must be a partnership in all things. I
must have that, a full share in my husband's life--or nothing! I tell
you, there is too much of men and women swearing before God to become as
one, and walking away to begin life and to live it ever after as two. It
was all very well when the women had the house to keep, and didn't
think; but nowadays most of them have no house to keep, and they are
beginning to think."

"But," Mrs. Delancy objected, much discomposed by this tirade against
matrimony as she knew it, "you're upsetting all the holy things. To look
up to your husband--that's love."

"That's lonesomeness and a crick in the neck!" was the flippant denial.
"My woman would stand where her brains entitle her to stand, beside her
husband, looking into his eyes, working for him, working with him, being
together with him straight through everything. That's love; that's real
marriage!"

"Cicily," Mrs. Delancy protested, totally bemused by her niece's fiery
eloquence, "I think you're wrong, but I--I feel that you're right."

"Deep down in your heart, dear," the young woman asserted with profound
conviction, "you know that I'm right, because you're a real woman. The
men don't know it--poor things!--but the ruling passion of a woman's
life is usefulness. And isn't it much nicer to work for a husband whom
you love than for the heathen?"

Before her aunt could frame an adequate answer to this very pertinent
inquiry, Cicily sprung up, with the graceful animation that was usual
with her.

"And, now, I must hurry home," she announced, "to receive Mrs. McMahon
and Mrs. Schmidt and Sadie Ferguson, who are coming to call."

"Merciful providence!" Mrs. Delancy ejaculated, in genuine horror. "You
don't mean to tell me that those women come to your house now?"

"Oh, yes," was the nonchalant assent. "Why shouldn't they? You know,
we're friends again now. I've organized them into a club."

"Well, I do not think it's at all proper," the old lady said, with
severe decisiveness.

But Cicily only laughed under the reproof, bestowed a hasty kiss on her
aunt's cheek, and swept buoyantly from the room.

CHAPTER XIV

When Mrs. McMahon, Mrs. Schmidt and Miss Ferguson were ushered into the
drawing-room of the Hamilton house, Cicily was there, ready to welcome
her guests