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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
In "The Woman Who Vowed (The Demetrian)," Ellison Harding masterfully weaves a tale of complex female identity and empowerment against a backdrop of societal constraints. Set in a richly imagined world reminiscent of both mythological and contemporary landscapes, the narrative follows its titular character as she navigates betrayal, courage, and self-discovery. Harding's prose is lyrical and evocative, blending elements of magical realism with incisive social commentary, inviting readers to reflect on the multifaceted roles women play in both personal narratives and collective history. Ellison Harding, a prominent voice in modern literature, draws from her own background as a feminist scholar and her extensive travels through diverse cultures to infuse depth and authenticity into her characters. Her previous works have often delved into themes of gender, identity, and power dynamics, and "The Woman Who Vowed" is a natural progression of Harding's literary exploration. Through meticulous research and personal anecdotes, Harding develops a nuanced perspective that challenges traditional narratives surrounding womanhood. Readers seeking an inspiring and thought-provoking exploration of female resilience will find "The Woman Who Vowed" a compelling addition to the literary canon. Harding'Äôs ability to juxtapose the personal with the political transforms the narrative into a universal statement on the strength and complexity of women'Äôs lives. This book is not just a story; it is a resonant call for empowerment that will linger long after the final page.
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The Woman Who Vowed (The Demetrian)
Table of Contents
CHAPTER I
A GODDESS AND A COMIC SONG
I remember awakening with a start, conscious of a face bending over me that was beautiful and strange.
I was quite unable to account for myself, and my surprise was heightened by the singular dress of the woman I saw. It was Greek—not of modern but of ancient Greece.
What had happened? Had I been acting in a Greek play and been stunned by an accident to the scenery? No; the grass upon which I was lying was damp, and a sharp twinge between the shoulders told me I had been there already too long. What, then, was the meaning of this classic dress?
I raised myself on one arm; and the young woman who had been kneeling beside me arose also. I was dazed, and shaded my eyes from the sun on the horizon—whether setting or rising I could not tell. I fixed my eyes upon the feet of my companion; they were curiously shod in soft leather, for cleanliness rather than for protection; tightly laced from the toe to the ankle and half way up the leg—half-moccasin and half-cothurnus. I fixed my eyes upon them and slowly became quite sure that I was alive and awake, but seemed still dazed and unwilling to look up. Presently she spoke.
"Are you ill?" she asked.
"I don't think so," answered I, as I lifted my eyes to hers.
When our eyes met I jumped to my feet with an alertness so fresh and fruitful that I seemed to myself to have risen anew from the Fountain of Youth. A miracle had happened. I was dead and had come to life again—and apparently this time in the Olympian world.
"Héré!" I exclaimed; "or Athéné! Cytherea, or Artemis!"
Then quickly the look of sympathetic concern that I had just seen in her eyes vanished. A ripple of laughter passed over her face like the first touch of a breeze on a becalmed sea; for a moment she seemed to restrain it, but her merriment awakened mine, and on perceiving it she abandoned all restraint and burst into a laugh that was musical, bewitching, and contagious. We stood there a full minute, both of us laughing, though I did not understand why. She soon explained.
"Where on earth do you come from, Xenos, and where—where did you get those things?" She pointed to my pantaloons as she spoke.
Then I discovered how ridiculous I appeared.
"And why have they cut all the hair off your face and left that ugly little stubble?"
I put my hand to my chin and felt there a beard of several days' growth.
"It must prick dreadfully," she said; and coming up to me she daintily passed a soft, rosy finger over my cheek. I caught her hand and kissed it. She jumped away from me like a fawn.
"Take care, young man," she said, reprovingly but not reproachfully; "though I don't suppose you are very young, for I see some gray in your hair."
I don't suppose I liked being reminded of my years, but I was altogether too much absorbed in the richness of her beauty and health to be concerned about myself. And the subtle combination of freedom and reserve in her manner conveyed to me an indescribable charm. At one moment it tempted me to trespass, but at the next I became aware that such an attempt would meet with humiliating resistance; for she was tall and strong. Her one rapid movement away from me proved her agility. She was perfectly able to take care of herself. Her consciousness of this had enabled her to meet my first advance with unruffled good humor, but I felt sure that persistence on my part would elicit repulsion and perhaps scorn.
We stood a moment smiling at each other; then she said:
"Come, you must take off those dreadful things; why, you are wet through"—and she passed her hand over my back—"and you must tell me what you are and where you come from. But you are chilled now and need something warm, so come to the Hall and you can tell me as we go."
As she spoke she swung to her head a basket I had not before observed; it was heavy, for she straightened herself to support it; and the weight, until she balanced it, brought out the muscles of her neck. She put her arms akimbo and showed the way.
"Well," she said, as we walked together side by side, "when are you going to begin?"
"How and where shall I begin?" answered I. "You forget that I too have questions to ask; I am bewildered. Who and what are you? In what country am I? Where did you get that beautiful dress?" I stepped a little away from her to observe the beauty of her form.
"We try to make all our garments beautiful," she answered, simply; "but this is the common dress of all—or rather the dress commonly worn in the country. We dress a little differently in town—but what do you find peculiar in my attire? What else could I wear out in the fields?"
I looked at the drapery, which did not hang lower than the knee; at the girdle that barely indicated the waist; at the chiton gathered by a brooch on one shoulder, leaving bare the whole length of her richly moulded arm.
"I would not have you wear anything else," said I, restraining my admiration; "but our women dress differently."
"Tell me about them," said she.
"I will," answered I, "but tell me first where I am and where we are going?"
"You are near a place called Tyringham," answered she, "and you are going with me to breakfast at the Hall."
As she spoke we were walking down a grassy slope and came in sight of a meadow on the left, through which meandered a crystal stream; it flowed from the right of the hill on which we stood, and just below where it fell in cascades over successive ledges it was straddled by a mill smothered in jasmine and purple clematis. The moment the mill came in sight my companion uttered a loud call that came echoing back to us from the surrounding hills. Her call was answered by several voices, and soon there came to meet us a youth as handsome in his way as my own companion. He, too, wore the Greek dress; he was about eighteen years of age and so like the girl that I guessed at once he was her brother. He put me out of countenance by staring at me with open-mouthed wonder and then bursting into an uncontrolled roar of laughter. But his sister took him by the arm and shook him.
"Stop laughing," she said. "Don't you see he doesn't like it?"
The boy stopped immediately—for I confess his laughter was not as agreeable to me as hers—and there came upon him an expression of the gentlest solicitude.
"I am sorry," he said, with tears of laughter still in his eyes; "I thought you were playing a joke on us."
I tried to look pleasant.
"I cannot at all account for myself," I said, "or for you; I suppose a long time has elapsed since I went to sleep; so long that I hardly remember where it was, though I think it was in Boston—in my bachelor quarters there."
They both looked puzzled and concerned.
"And what is your name?" asked the girl.
"Henry T. Joyce," answered I.
I could see that my very name amused them though they tried to conceal it.
"And yours?" asked I of the girl.
"Lydia—Lydia second, or more correctly, Lydia of Lydia."
"That means," said the boy, "that her mother's name was Lydia; and so I call myself Cleon of Lydia, because, my mother's name was Lydia. She," he added, pointing to the girl, "is my sister."
He was dressed, like her, in a simple tunic coming to the knees, and was shod like her also; but the tunic was not pinned up on one shoulder: it had sleeves like our jacket.
We were walking down the hill and came now in sight of a group of buildings entirely of wood, of a beauty that made them a delight to behold. One much larger than the others reminded me of what Westminster Hall would be if separated from the more recent Houses of Parliament. It was lighted by large Gothic windows that started from above a covered veranda; the veranda offered countless opportunities for surprises in the way of carved pillars, twisting staircases, and subsidiary balconies, every corner being smothered in vines and bursting into blossoms of varied hue. Clearly the upper part of the building was a large hall, and the lower part split up into smaller rooms. Near this Hall and connected with it by covered ways were numerous other buildings, all different, but conforming to the lay of the land on either side of a torrent, upon one level reach of which stood the mill in the same quaint style.
"Our power house," said Cleon, pointing to it.
I thought of the hideous masonry that ruined the valley of the Inn between San Moritz and Celerina in the old days, and I wondered. But my eyes were too much bent on the beautiful lines of Lydia's form to linger long on the mill or its adjacent buildings. I had fallen behind her in order to be able to take better account of her. The weight of the basket on her head brought out the strength of her shoulders and the rhythmic movement of her body. Every time she turned to speak to us her hands left the waist in an unconscious effort to maintain her balance, thus throwing into relief the rounded outline of her arm and the delicacy of her wrist. "Alma venus genitrix," thought I, "hominum divumque voluptas."
Cleon kept talking all the way, interrupted occasionally by Lydia. He explained all the buildings to me and their respective uses. As we approached the Hall we met several other young men and women who joined us, for all were going in the same direction. Each expressed the same surprise and amusement on beholding me; they joined Lydia, who with an air of importance repeated her story to every one. I felt more comfortable between Lydia and Cleon and had therefore joined the brother and sister, so as to have the protection of one of them on either side.
When we reached the Hall, Cleon suggested that I must feel uncomfortable in my damp clothes and took me to the men's quarters. He provided me with all that was necessary for a complete toilet. A large swimming tank occupied the basement of the building, and into it I was glad to plunge. After I had shaved—for a razor was provided—I assumed the simple garment of my neighbors and for the first time felt ashamed of the whiteness of my skin. By the side of the swarthy limbs about me my arms and legs looked naked and pitiful. I was extremely hungry, however, and my appetite overcame my reluctance at facing the crowd that I felt was awaiting me at the Hall. As we approached it we heard echoes of song and laughter.
"They have finished breakfast," said Cleon, pushing me through the open doorway.
Our entrance was unobserved, for they were all engaged in singing; the words I heard in chorus were "The Lightning Calculator!" They all stamped at each alternate syllable and I noticed that Lydia was the centre of observation. She was flushed, half with vexation and half with merriment, and was being held by a crowd of girls who prevented her from interfering with the soloist, who, standing on a chair with a guitar, was improvising.
I could not hear the words distinctly from where I stood but caught something about a certain Chairo, at the mention of whose name there was a laugh, and the stanza closed, as had the last, with "The Lightning Calculator," whereupon all laughed again and stamped as they repeated in chorus "The Light-ning Cal-cu-la-tor."
"That's my sister," said Cleon to me in a whisper. "She's the Lightning Calculator."
In the next stanza, which was quite unintelligible to me, I noticed an allusion to Demeter, at which the women looked shocked and the men delighted. I was wondering at the significance of this when Lydia discovered me, and, delighted to divert attention from herself by directing it toward me, she said to the tormentors who were holding her: "There he is!"—and she nodded in my direction.
Immediately all eyes were turned toward me and I became painfully conscious of my bare white legs. The young man with the guitar stepped down from his chair and came to me.
"Welcome to Tyringham," said he. "We don't know how you got here or where you come from, but we are ready to answer questions and willing to ask none."
I stammered something in answer and was led to a table where two places had been left for us. Cleon and I sat down and food was brought. Lydia asked me a few conventional questions to put me at my ease; but hardly succeeded, for seemingly some hundreds were engaged in staring at me. At last some one pushed the soloist by the arm. "One more verse, Ariston," said he, and Ariston jumped on the chair again, and, twanging his guitar, resumed:
My legs were well under the table so I could join in the laugh, secretly satisfied to be associated with her even in the jingling nonsense of a comic song.
"Boobies!" exclaimed Lydia, "and Babies!" she added. "Boobies and Babies!" She ran to the door and they all followed her, boisterously laughing, and leaving me alone with Cleon.
"I didn't understand much of it," said I. "Who is Chairo?"
"Chairo is a great man; one of our great men; the youngest of them; he may become anything; but he is not popular because he is so dictatorial."
"And he is in love with Lydia?"
"Frightfully in love."
"And Lydia?"
"Ah! no one knows; she's very sly, Lydia"; and Cleon chuckled to himself.
"And why did everybody look at one another when Ariston sang about Demeter?"
"Well, the women don't like to have it talked about."
I was puzzled.
"Do tell me about it," I said, "for I know nothing about Demeter except what I have read in my classics."
"Well, Demeter, you see"—but he blushed and stammered—"I really never had it altogether explained to me; the women never talk of it, and yet the Cult, as they call it, 'the Cult of Demeter,' is the most important thing to them in the world."
I went on eating my breakfast and trying to guess what Cleon was driving at, but altogether failed.
"What does this Cult of Demeter have to do with your sister?" I asked at last.
"Why," answered Cleon, looking round cautiously and lowering his voice, "Lydia is a Demetrian."
"What does that mean—'Demetrian'?"
"It means that she has been selected by Demeter."
"Do try to remember," I said a little impatiently, "that I know nothing about your Demeter and can make neither head nor tail of what you are saying."
The irritation I felt made me aware that I was jealous of Chairo, jealous of Demeter, and infatuated with Lydia. Cleon's half explanations seemed to be putting Lydia out of my reach, and I was exasperated at not being able to understand just how far.
"Well," answered Cleon, "I don't know whether I ought to tell you, but it's this way: Lydia is awfully clever at figures. She can square any ten of them; add any number of columns; multiply any number by any number all in a flash. And so she's been selected by Demeter; that is to say, I suppose, they are going to marry her to some great mathematician."
"What!" exclaimed I, indignantly. "They are going to sacrifice her to a mathematician?"
"Sacrifice!" retorted Cleon with open eyes. "Why, it isn't a sacrifice! It is the greatest honor a woman can have!"
"And what does Lydia say to it?"
"She hasn't made up her mind."
"Oh, then, she has to be consulted," said I, relieved. "She cannot be compelled."
"Oh, no," answered Cleon, "she is selected—that is to say, the honor is offered to her; she may not accept it if she does not like; but a girl seldom refuses. She is no more likely to refuse the mission of Demeter than Chairo would be to refuse the Presidency. It is very hard work being President—very wearing; in fact, I should think it would be an awful bore; but nobody ever refuses it, because of the honor. I suppose it is the same thing with the mission of Demeter."
I was more and more puzzled, but despaired of getting satisfaction from Cleon.
CHAPTER II
HARVESTING AND HARMONY
We had finished breakfast now, and my hunger satisfied, I was free to look about me a little. The hall was lofty, and the roof supported by Gothic arches, sculptured by hands that had enjoyed the work; for although the design of the building was simple and dignified it was covered with ornaments of bewildering complexity. We were waited on by women who could not be distinguished from those upon whom they waited; of every age and of every type, most of them were glowing with health and cheerfulness. They laughed a great deal with one another, and offered me advice as to what they put before me; warned me when a dish was hot, and recommended the cream as particularly fresh and sweet. They made me feel as though I had been there for years and knew every one of them intimately. Just as we were finishing, a fine old man with a white beard and a patriarchal countenance joined us:
"You come from a couple of centuries ago," he said.
"Is it two centuries, or a thousand years?" asked I.
"I have been looking at your clothes; you don't mind, do you? they indicate the end of the nineteenth or beginning of the twentieth century."
"You have guessed right," said I; "and what year are you?"
"We count from the last Constitution which was voted ninety-three years ago, in 2011 of your reckoning. So we call the present year 93."
"So you have given up the old Constitution," I said with a touch of sentiment in my voice.
"Yes, it had to be changed when we advanced to where we are now in methods of manufacture and distribution of profits."
"Can you give your methods a name?"
"You used to call it Collectivism; we call it Solidarity."
"You mean to say you actually practise Collectivism!"
The patriarch smiled.
"Your writers used to say it was impossible," he said; "just as the English engineers once said the building of the Suez Canal was impossible, and our own engineers the building of the Panama Canal was impossible. As a matter of fact, Collectivism is as much easier than your old plan as mowing with a reaper is easier than mowing with a scythe. You will see this for yourself—and you will see" here his brow darkened—"that the real problem—the as yet unsolved problem—is a very different one. But Cleon must join the haymakers; what would you like to do?"
I was much interested in the old man and was anxious to hear what he had to say about the "as yet unsolved problem," which I already guessed. But I was still more anxious to be with Lydia, so I asked:
"Does Cleon work with his sister?"
"Yes," said Cleon, "on the slope, a few minutes from here."
"Perhaps I had better make myself useful," said I hypocritically.
I thought I detected a little smile behind the big white beard as the old man said to Cleon, "Well, hurry off now; you are late."
I followed Cleon up the hill. He explained to me on the way that the meadows were all cut by machinery, but that the slopes had still to be cut by hand. We soon came upon a group in which I recognized Lydia and Ariston. They were on a steep hill. Lydia was swinging her scythe with the strength and skill of a man. She was the nearest to me of a row of ten, all swinging together. Ariston was singing an air that followed the movement; he sang low; and all joined occasionally in a modulated chorus. Cleon took up a scythe and joined them. I was glad to observe that there was no scythe for me, for I had never handled one. I stood watching the work. When the song was over they worked in silence, but the rhythm of their swinging replaced the music. It reminded me of the exhilarating harmony of an eight-oared crew. At last one of the girls cried out, "I want to rest"; and all stopped.
"I was hoping some one would cry 'halt!'" said Ariston.
"So was I," whispered Lydia to him.
"So were we all," called out the rest.
They sat down on the grass; after a moment's breathing space Ariston lifted his hand; all looked at him, and he started a fugue which was taken up, one after another, by the entire party; to my surprise and delight I recognized Bach's Number Seven in C flat, and I began to understand the rôle that music might play in the life of a people, and what a pitiable business our twentieth-century notion of it was. Confined to a few laborious executants and still fewer composers, the rich partook of it at stated hours in overheated rooms, and the masses ignored it, except in its most vulgar form, almost altogether; while here, under a tree in the large light of the sun during an interval of rest, all not only enjoyed it, but joined in it at its best. I singled out Lydia's rich contralto and noted how she dwelt on the notes that marked changes of key, with a delight in counter-point that belonged to her mathematical temperament. I watched her every movement. She had thrown off the loose gloves she wore while mowing and was lying on her face, playing with a flower. The posture would have been regarded by us of the twentieth century as unmaidenly; but in the atmosphere created by the simplicity of these people I felt as though I were in one of Corot's pictures. Maidenliness had ceased to be a matter of convention and had become a matter of fact. There was a fund of reserve behind the frankness of Lydia's manner that conveyed a conviction of rectitude entirely beyond the necessity of a rigorous manner, or of a particular method of deportment.
I seemed to be transported back to the peasantry of some parts of France or of the Tyrol; but here was an added refinement that demolished the distance which had always kept me despairingly aloof from these; here was the charm of frankness, of gayety, and of simplicity, coupled with a cleanliness of person, delicacy of thought and manner, culture, art, music—all that makes life beautiful and sweet.
The young men and women who sat singing under the trees, smitten here and there with patches of sunlight, were all of them comely and wholesome of body and mind; but Lydia was to me preëminent; and yet, could it be said that she was beautiful? Her eyes were long and narrow and when I crossed glances with her they escaped me; so that I forgot the matter of beauty in my eagerness to penetrate their meaning; her face was too square to satisfy the ideal; her nose was distinctly tip-tilted, like the petal of a flower; her mouth was large and well shaped—altogether desirable; and her hair was flaxen and straight, but in its coils it seemed to have a separate life of its own so brightly did it gleam and glow.
Lydia was the first to jump up and suggest that work be resumed; and as she stood among the prostrate forms of her companions she embodied to my mind Diana, with a scythe in her hand instead of a bow. All arose together and set to work again, but in silence this time; and under the shade where I sat, nothing broke the quiet save the hum of insect life in the blazing sun and the periodic swirl of the reapers. They did not rest again until the patch of hillside at which they worked was mown, when with a sigh of satisfaction they rested a moment on their scythes; but for a moment only, for presently Lydia ran for shelter from the sun to the shade of the tree under which I sat. She reclined quite close to me, looked me frankly in the face and smiled. I was surprised to find eyes that had escaped me till now suddenly become fixed composedly on mine, and noticed for the first time that these women put on and off their coquetry according to the context of their thought, for presently she said:
"I am afraid you are lazy!"
"I believe I am," answered I.
"You mean to say you wouldn't like to join us in our work?"
There was not the slightest reproach in her voice, only surprise.
"I much prefer looking at you," I replied with a little attempt at gallantry. But there was no response in her eyes that remained fixed on me. She was trying to explain me to herself. I felt uncomfortable at being a mere object of abstract curiosity. She was reclining on her side, resting on one hand: in the other hand she was absently twisting a flower she had plucked. Notwithstanding my discomfort I rejoiced in at last plunging my look deep into hers. What was happening in the blue depths of those eyes? I felt as though I were trying to penetrate the secrets of a house the windows of which reflected more light than they passed through. I saw the reflection only. Behind was a judge weighing me in the balance, but as to whose judgment I could form no idea. And although I was conscious that in her I had a critic, I was so bewitched by her charm that I said to her in an undertone—for the others were talking to one another:
"You are very beautiful!"
She waved her flower before my eyes as though to put a material obstacle, however frail, between us and smiled; but she looked down presently and laughingly answered:
"That doesn't make you any the less lazy."
I did not wish to be set down permanently in her mind as good for nothing, so I explained:
"I am not incurably so; indeed, at my own work I was industrious; but I never held a scythe in my life."
She looked at me again in open-eyed wonder.
"What was 'your own work'?" asked she.
"I practised law."
"What, nothing but law? Did you never get tired of doing nothing but law?"
"We believed in specializing."
"Ah, I remember! The nineteenth century was the great century of specialization. Later on it was found that specialization was necessary to original work, but that it brutalized labor; we have very few specialists now: only those who have genius for particular things, as, for example, doctors, engineers, electricians—but we have no lawyers." She laughed at me with bantering but good-natured contempt in her laugh as she emphasized the word "lawyers." "And you mean to say you did nothing but lawyerise?" And she suddenly with finger and thumb lifted my free hand that was resting on the grass—for I was reclining on my other elbow, too—and I became aware that my hand was soft and white.
"It wasn't always soft and white," I explained. "I did a great deal of rowing at college."
She kept hold of my hand with finger and thumb and laughed gently:
"I don't believe it ever did a useful bit of work in its life."
I was piqued; and yet her low laugh was so catching, her long eyes so subtle, her lips so bewitching, that I gladly let my hand hang in her contemptuous fingers so long as I could be near her and in commune with her.
"That depends on what you call useful work," said I.
"I call useful any work that contributes to our health, wealth, and well-being." The coquetry went out of her manner again and she became thoughtful. "The people of that time needed lawyers to fight their battles for them, but we have got rid of at any rate one principal occasion of discord—the occasion that made lawyers necessary. We have men specially versed in the law still, but they don't confine themselves to law; they cut hay too. Ariston is a great lawyer."
She had dropped my hand by this time; as she mentioned Ariston we both looked toward him; one of the girls exclaimed:
"I am hot; let's sing something cool."
"The Fountain," called out another.
Ariston lifted his hand again, and after beating a measure struck a clear high note; he held the note during a measure and then his voice came tumbling down the scale in bursts of semitones relieved by tonic spaces, with a variety that reminded me of the Shepherd's song in "Tristan and Isolde." The moment he left the first high note it was taken up by another voice during the full measure, and as soon as the second voice dropped down the scale, a third one pitched the high note again, and so on voice after voice, the high note imaging the highest point of the jet d'eau, and every voice dropping tumultuously down into a placid pool of infinite variety below. Lydia did not attempt the high note, but beginning low kept at the low level in peaceful contrast to the sparkling tenors and sopranos, the whole musical structure resting on the bass which moved ponderously and contrapuntally against the contraltos.
How shall I tell the thoughts that crowded upon me as, lying on my back, I listened to this amazing harmony! The beginning reminded me of one of Palestrina's masses and transported me to a Christmas midnight at the church of St. Gervais; but as soon as the intention of the strain became clear to me, I felt that it belonged to the open air, to the eternal spaces, to the new-mown hay, to my radiant companions. The merriment of it, its complexity, its wholesomeness, the delight it gave—all brought to a focus and intensified the interest that was growing within me for Lydia.
But the whole party rose now to begin work on another hillside and Lydia turned to me with:
"Why do you stay with us? Why not go to the Hall? You will find the Pater there; we call him the Pater because he is the father of the settlement. He will want to talk to you, and you need to talk to him." She put an arch little emphasis on the word "need." Evidently she did not want me to be loitering among them. I pretended to adopt her suggestion with alacrity although in my heart I wished nothing but to remain with her.
"Yes," I said, "I shall never get out of my bewilderment unless I talk to some one who can understand my point of view."
"And you will probably find Chairo there," she added, with a provoking smile. "He was to arrive to-day."
Ariston pricked his ear:
"Ah!" he said. "You will enjoy meeting Chairo; he is the leader of our Radical party; he is in favor of all sorts of Radical measures—such as the destruction of the Cult—" the women looked at one another—"the respect of private property——"
"What! Do you call the respect of private property Radical?" asked I. "It was the shibboleth of the Conservatives in my time; they called it the 'sacredness of private property.'"
"Just as the Demetrians speak of the 'sacredness' of the Cult to-day," said Ariston.
"Whenever Hypocrisy wants to preserve an abuse she calls it Sacred," said a strong voice at my elbow. I turned and saw that a new companion had been added to us, and I guessed at once that it was Chairo.
