She lay and nibbled at a sprig of dwarf rhododendron. “It is just six o’clock now. I—I am a lovesick idiot, and not accountable for my actions. As she talked, the drift and significance of what she was saying shaped itself slowly to Ann Veronica’s apprehension. For a time she brooded on the ideals and suggestions of the Socialists, on the vague intimations of an Endowment of Motherhood, of a complete relaxation of that intense individual dependence for women which is woven into the existing social order. "Still," went on the manager, "they are slaves in a sense; they are bought and sold until their original indebtedness is paid. Impassive by nature and training, he was conscious to-night of a strange sense of excitement, of exhilaration tempered by a dull background of disappointment.
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