way, be independent at any cost."

"Do you mean I ought to do that?"

"I don't mean you ought, because I know you couldn't. You could no
more go and earn your own living now--now that you've learnt the ease
and luxury of living in a man's arms--than you could fly. You aren't
the type, Sally; you never were."

Sally's lips pressed together. "You think I love the ease and
luxury?" she said bitterly. "You think as poorly of me as that?"

"I don't think poorly at all. You were never meant to work. Your curse
is the curse of Eve, not Adam. You ought to have a child. You wouldn't
be wasting your soul out on a man then. You'd take every farthing
that Traill's left you, as it's only right you should. You don't see
any right in it now; but you would then. Every single thing in the
world is worth its salt, and a child 'ud be the salt of life to you.
When do you think you'll hear from your mother?"

"To-morrow, perhaps."

"Well, then, directly you hear you can go--go! Don't stop in London
another second. It's a pitiable purgatory for you now. Go and look
after the little kiddies in the school. You'll know quick enough what
I mean about the curse of Eve, when you find one of them tugging at
your skirts for sympathy."

END OF BOOK III

BOOK IV

THE EMPTY HORIZON

CHAPTER I

Cailsham--one of those small antiquated towns which, in its day, has
had its name writ in history--sits at the feet of the hills, like
an old man, weary of toil, and gazes out with sleepy eyes over the
garden of Kent. In the spring, the country is patched with white
around--white, with the blossoms in the fruit plantations. Broad
acres of cherry orchards spread their snow-white sheets out in the
sun--a giant's washing-day. The little lanes wind tortuous ways
between the fields of apple bloom, and off in the forest of the tree
stems, lying lazily in the high-grown grass, dappled yellow with
sunlight, you will find in every orchard a boy, idly beating a
monotonous tattoo to scare away the birds. A collection of tin pots
in various stages of dilapidation, each one emitting a different
hollow note, are spread around him, and there he lies the day through
till nightfall, eating the meals that are brought him, humming a tune
between them to pass away the time; but ceaselessly beating a
discordant dominant upon his sounding drums of tin. This is Cailsham
in the spring. Cailsham at any time is more the country that surrounds
it. All its c