That I would not marry as she wished was a grievous blow to her.  I had no desire to marry, and it was when refusing to do so that certain realizations came to me sharply, and all the more acutely, because I had so long been seemingly indifferent to them.  On the morning following the night in which I had faced frankly undeniable facts I went to Aunt Matilda’s room and told her I could no longer be dependent, told her of my purpose to earn my own living.  I was strong, healthy, well educated.  There was no reason why I should not do what other women were doing.

As I talked her amazement and indignation deepened into anger, and had I been a child I “would undoubtedly have been punished for my impertinence and audacity in daring to desire to go out into the world to earn what there was no necessity for my earning.  Socially, a woman could be autocratic, I was told, but in all things else she should be dependent on the stronger sex.

“But there is no stronger-sex person for me to be dependent upon, even were I willing to depend,” I said, and made effort to keep back what I must not say to her, but surely would have said to others.  For years I had been the recipient of her bounty, the object of her care, and she still thought of me as something to be protected.  That I should prefer to work, prefer to take my place in the world of women-workers, was beyond her grasp.

“Mr. Chesmond understood when I married him—­it is part of our marriage contract—­that you were to have the same advantages as his daughter.  He has very willingly given you these.  If you no longer care to accept his protection, you can marry.  Opportunities such as come to few girls have come to you.  A home of your own is yours for the taking.  In my day—­”

“But this is not your day!” I bit my lip.  When Aunt Matilda’s face got a certain shade of red and her breath became short and quick, I was uneasy.  The doctor had warned us of the seriousness of her condition.  She was pitifully afraid of death—­it was the only thing she was afraid of—­and death might come at any time.  To prevent excitement there must be with her no discussion, and, as far as possible, no opposition to her will.

“Your day and mine are very far apart.”  I made effort to speak quietly.  “Women no longer have to be adjuncts to men because they don’t know how to be anything else.  They can stand up now by themselves.  Conditions have forced them to face life much more—­”

“Face fiddlesticks!” Aunt Matilda’s hands made an impatient gesture.  “Women have no business doing what many of them are doing today.  They are forgetting the place to which they were appointed by their Creator.  But even if you were at liberty to carry out your silly ideas, what could you do?  How could you earn your living?  You play well, paint a little, read books that do you no good, and hardly enough of the new novels to discuss them.  All this sociological stuff, those scientific things I see in your room, are absurd for a woman to bother with.  Men dislike women who think too much and know too much.  You are well educated and clever enough, but what could you do if you were suddenly left without means of support?”