“Oh.”

“You’re sure to misunderstand.  Please listen carefully.  He is as far to me—­from being that kind of a real man—­as a mere native.  Do you understand?...  I could worship through him, as through a pure priest——­”

“Vina, you’re a passionate idealist!”

“You don’t know him.  I think he is beyond sex—­or going beyond.  Perhaps he doesn’t know it....  Oh, we’ve been hurt a little, by boys who failed to grow into men, and so we took to our breasts painted and molded images, saying there are no real men.  And here in our midst comes more than we ask or dream—­a Prophet in the making.  That’s very clear to me, and you’ll see it!...  The result—­a clearer vision into clay and its possibilities, and an expanded conception of my subjects—­that’s one point and a wonderful one.  I’m grateful, but there’s another....  Oh, Beth, I’m sick unto nausea with repression.  Why, should I deny it; I want a real lover among men, and I want live dolls!”

A trenchant moment to Beth Truba.  No one, so well as she, could perceive the tragedy of this gifted woman, whom the right man had missed in the crush of the world’s women.  A real artist, but a greater woman....  More than this was revealed to Beth.  Her own Shadowy Sister was speaking to her with Vina Nettleton’s tongue, as Beth Truba could never speak of another...

The Grey One, too, had her tragedy; and Kate Wilkes had hers long ago, a strong woman, whose cup of bitterness had overflowed in her veins; who had come so to despise men, as to profess disliking children.  Indeed, that moment, Beth Truba seemed to hear the whispered affirmations of tragedy from evolved women everywhere....And whither was tending the race, if only the Wordlings of the world were to be satisfied—­if Wordlings were all that men cared for?  What was to become of the race, if the few women who loved art, and through art learned really to love their kind, were forever to be denied?  And here was Vina Nettleton with the spiritual power to concentrate her dream into an avatar (if into the midst of her solitary labors, a great man’s love should suddenly come)!...  Did the Destiny Master fall asleep for a century at a time, that such a genius for motherhood should be denied, while the earth was being replenished with children of chance, branded with commonness and forever afraid?

Beth Truba shook herself from this crippling rush of thoughts, and started to her feet.

“Vina, you’ve been drinking deep of power.  You’re a giantess reeking with mad contagions.  Also, you’re a heretic.  Allow me to remind you that we are spinsters; born and enforced, and decently-to-be-buried spinsters.  It isn’t the Sailor-man, but the spring of the year, that makes us a bit feverish.  We should go to the catacombs for this season, when this devil’s rousing is in the air....  If you have anything further to say, purely in regard to artistic inspirations, you may go on——­”