“Hospital? What for? What’s the matter with me?” Courtlaw’s voice sank to a whisper. He had not addressed to her even the most ordinary courtesy of fellow travellers; she doubted that he was even aware of her existence. To her horror she realized that she had nearly forgotten how to kiss after a years-long dry spell, and she could detect drool on her own chin and John’s cheek. His fingers closed upon her hand. 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.
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