What next? Rebellion, with Julia shining gloriously as leader. She had been waiting for this. And in ten pages of profound, simple, magnificent talk--if only every woman in the world would read it!--she explains to the others that they must learn to walk. Peachy objects, because she dislikes the earth. "There are stars in the air," she argues. "But we never reached them," answers Julia. The earth is a good place, and they must learn to live in it. Besides, their children will fly better for learning to walk, and walk better for knowing how to fly; and she prophesies that _then_ will be born to one of them a boy child with wings. The women hide and master the art of walking. While they're doing this their poor wings have a chance to grow a little, and by the time the men are ready to capture and subdue them a second time they have achieved a combination of walking and flying that puts them beyond reach. Then the men submit ... and Julia asks Billy to marry her. That's all, except one short chapter about Julia. She has a son with wings! And then she dies--radiant, white, goddess-woman, whose life had been so fine a thing. The beauty of it all simply overwhelmed me. All of which points to several important conclusions. First, that Mrs. Gillmore is a poet and prophet of golden values. Second, that prejudice is the most foolish thing in the world. A general prejudice against that obvious form of comedy called farce might cause you to miss _The Legend of Leonore_. And a stubborn caution in regard to allegories--which, I concede, generally _are_ unsubtle--might keep you from _Angel Island_. Correspondence Two Views of H. G. Wells I am just reading _The Passionate Friends_, and every time I read anything of Wells's I wonder why it is I don't like him better. _The World Set Free_ that has been running in _The Century_ was intensely worth while, I thought--really prophetic. One tasted something almost divine; human nature is capable of such wonderful undreamed of things! It was like Tennyson prophesying the Federation of the World, airships, etc. Wells does seem inspired in some ways. But every time I read any of his novels--well, you remember I have a distinct mid-Victorian flavor that has to be reckoned with. I wasn't brought up in a minister's family for nothing! I suppose it's what we used to call our conscience. Mine isn't much good, alas; I sometimes think of it as a little old Victorian lady. She sits in the background of my consciousness and knits and knits and nods her head. Meanwhile I go blithely about, espousing all sorts of causes and thinking out all sorts of theories--imagining, you know, that I'm perfectly free. Suddenly she wakes up--she lays aside her knitting with a determined air and says, "Mary Martha, _what_ are you thinking about! Stop that right now; I'm ashamed of you." And she has authority, too, you know. I stop. Ridiculous, isn't it?--but so it is.