And she had been born within the twentieth century. It seemed a case for the text-books of sexual psychology. “Mrs. Emily X., born in 1901, was found to be in a state of perfect innocence and ignorance at the time of the Armistice, 11th November 1918,” etc. “And so you married him?” She had nodded. “And then?” She had covered her face with her hands, she had shuddered. The amateur uncle, now professionally a husband, had come to claim his rights—drunk. She had fought him, she had eluded him, had run away and locked herself into another room. On the second night of her honeymoon he gave her a bruise on the forehead and a bite on the left breast which had gone on septically festering for weeks. On the fourth, more determined than ever, he seized her so violently by the throat, that a blood-vessel broke and she began coughing bright blood over the bedclothes. The amateur uncle had been reduced to send for a doctor and Emily had spent the next few weeks in a nursing home. That was four years ago; her husband had tried to induce her to come back, but Emily had refused. She had a little money of her own; she was able to refuse. The amateur uncle had consoled himself with other and more docile nieces. “And has nobody tried to make love to you since then?” he asked. “Oh, lots of them have tried.” “And not succeeded?” She shook her head. “I don’t like men,” she said. “They’re hateful, most of them. They’re brutes.” “_Anch’ io?_” “What?” she asked, puzzled. “Am I a brute too?” And behind his beard, suddenly, he felt rather a brute. “No,” said Emily, after a little hesitation, “you’re different. At least I think you are; though sometimes,” she added candidly, “sometimes you do and say things which make me wonder if you really are different.” The Complete Man laughed. “Don’t laugh like that,” she said. “It’s rather stupid.” “You’re perfectly right,” said Gumbril. “It is.” And how did she spend her time? He continued the exploration. Well, she read a lot of books; but most of the novels she got from Boots’ seemed to her rather silly. “Too much about the same thing. Always love.” The Complete Man gave a shrug. “Such is life.” “Well, it oughtn’t to be,” said Emily. And then, when she was in the country—and she was often in the country, taking lodgings here and there in little villages, weeks and months at a time—she went for long walks. Molly couldn’t understand why she liked the country; but she did. She was very fond of flowers. She liked them more than people, she thought. “I wish I could paint,” she said. “If I could, I’d be happy for ever, just painting flowers. But I can’t paint.” She shook her head. “I’ve tried so often. Such dirty, ugly smudges come out on the paper; and it’s all so lovely in my head, so lovely out in the fields.”