Herminia's
romance was something more than that. It was the despairing
heart-cry of a soul in revolt. It embodied the experiences and
beliefs and sentiments of a martyred woman. It enclosed a lofty
ethical purpose. She wrote it with fiery energy, for her baby's
sake, on waste scraps of paper, at stray moments snatched from
endless other engagements. And as soon as it was finished, she sent
it in fear and trembling to a publisher.
She had chosen her man well. He was a thinker himself, and he
sympathized with thinkers. Though doubtful as to the venture, he
took all the risk himself with that generosity one so often sees in
the best-abused of professions. In three or four weeks' time "A
Woman's World" came out, and Herminia waited in breathless anxiety
for the verdict of the reviewers.
For nearly a month she waited in vain. Then, one Friday, as she
was returning by underground railway from the Strand to Edgeware
Road, with Dolores in her arms, her eye fell as she passed upon the
display-bill of the "Spectator." Sixpence was a great deal of
money to Herminia; but bang it went recklessly when she saw among
the contents an article headed, "A Very Advanced Woman's Novel.
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