"I wonder what you were like, Daddy, twenty years ago—just when I WAS beginning. Oh, I guess I would have liked you. But even if I did, I would have sent a lawyer to you with a long contract, specifying my various and sundry privileges and your corresponding duties. Then I would have led you down to the City Hall and made you sign each and every article with a big oath. How would you have liked that?" "I’d have submitted joyfully." Her arm tightened about my neck. "And do you know what I would have done then, Daddy?" she asked after a moment’s silence. "I guess—just as soon as we were alone—I’d have torn up that contract into little pieces. And I’d have said, ’Oh, My Lord and Master, be humble to me in public, for the sake of all my poor sisters who are afraid—but here in private, please, trample on me some. And oh! if you love me—make me darn your socks.’ "Oh Daddy, that’s the heart-break of it all"—there was a catch in her voice—"That’s what’s hard. We know that we must fight for our freedom and equality—for the other women’s sake. And all the while—if we are in love—what our heart cries out for is a ruler. We want to serve." I think when I get a chance I will tell Billy to show his muscle now and then. So this is where I am today. My experiment in ethics? It has failed. I can no more surely distinguish right from wrong today, than when I was a boy in school. My best efforts landed Jerry—innocent—in prison. The one time when I violated every rule I had laid down for my guidance in the Tombs, when I lied profusely, played dirty politics, compounded a felony, and went on a man-hunt, with hate in my heart, I disposed of the pimp Blackie, freed Nina, gave happiness to Norman. Marie is the result. Certainly one of the best things in my life has been Ann’s love. It came to me without any striving on my part, it has been in no way a reward for effort or aspiration. Step by step it has seemed to me wrong. I do not believe in free love. I cannot justify it any more than I could stealing eggs when I was a boy. It was something I wanted and which I took. Yet I am quite sure it has been good. On the other hand, the time when I strove hardest to reach a higher plane, when I was most anxious to be upright and honorable, those days I spent in France with Suzanne, resulted in the most bitter pain, the most dismal failure of my life. This is not a little thing to me, even after all these years. The days come when I must open my trunk, take out her rucksac and the map—the only mementos I have of her—they are days of anguish. Why should it not have been? My life seems bitter and of small worth when I think of what it might have been with her.