So, at least, thought one of two persons who were seated together in a small back-parlour of the house at Dollis Hill. They are for serving me. She had never imagined life was half so sinister as it looked to her in the beginning of these investigations. Tristan dying and Isolde coming to crown his death. Then she would have quiet times, in which she would say to herself, “Now look here! Let me think it all out!” For the first time, it seemed to her, she faced the facts of a woman’s position in the world—the meagre realities of such freedom as it permitted her, the almost unavoidable obligation to some individual man under which she must labor for even a foothold in the world.
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