that the age of heroes was dead—­if it had ever been, outside the covers of story-books.  It seemed that Siegfried no longer lived to slay dragons, that Andromeda would have to buckle on armour, slip her bonds and save her Perseus when he got into no end of entanglements on his way to rescue her.  By degrees she came to think that men were children, to be humoured by being called “boss” or “hero” as the case may be.  Reading the extraordinary assortment of books sent to her by the doctor, as time went on, it seemed to her that John the Baptist of to-day had gone aside from making straight the pathway of the Lord to lie in the tangles of Salome’s hair.  In all the great names she read there seemed to be a kink; some of them were under a cloud of drugs or drink; de Quincey hurt her terribly; sitting one day on the side of Louis’s bed reading “John Barleycorn”—­she had discovered Jack London in the “Cruise of the Snark” and loved his fine adventurousness—­she felt that she could not bear to know a thing so fine, so joyous and so dashing as he should have so miserable a neurosis.

Dr. Angus, among other things, sent her Kraill’s Lendicott Trust Autumn lectures in the form of six little grey covered pamphlets.  They were much coloured by recent inspiring German and American sex psychology.  But she did not know that.  She thought that they began, continued and ended in Kraill and, though she fell down in adoration before his uncanny wisdom, his cynicism made her miserable.  They showed her humanity in chains; particularly did they show her man in chains; she read them all—­six of them—­in one afternoon and evening; students and trained scientists had taken them in doses of one a fortnight.  Naturally she got mental indigestion that was not helped by the fact that, six to a dozen times on every page, she had to find the meaning of words in a dictionary she had bought to look up the meaning of Louis’s remark the first night they were married.  He was amused and tolerant about the dictionary.  He seemed to think girls need not trouble to understand what they read.  He was particularly superior about “little girls trying to take strong meat when they were at the milk-for-babes stage of development.”

“But you know, Louis,” she said, looking up from her pamphlet with a perplexed frown, “He seems to think that if a man wants a cup of tea and a piece of bread and butter, it’s sex!”

“Well, so it is,” said Louis calmly, puffing at his cigarette and watching her through the smoke.  “Every hunger on earth is sex, right at bottom—­every desire is generated by the sex force; drinking, love of parents and children, love of God, the artist’s desire for beauty and to create beauty—­just sex, old lady!”

He laughed at her horrified face.

“And you’re such a bally little Puritan you think that’s terrible, don’t you?”

She nodded, flushing.

“You aren’t a Puritan, really, Marcella,” he said, watching her face.  “It’s your upbringing has made you a Puritan.”