Nevertheless those were the thoughts which often came to her at night, after she had said her prayers and popped into bed and lay there in the dark turning things over in her mind.
One night, for instance, after Wally had left earlier than usual, she lay with her head snuggled on the pillow, full of vague dreams and visions--vague dreams of greatness born of the sunsets and stars and flowers--vague visions of proving herself worthy of the heritage of life.
"I don't think it's a bit fair," she thought.

"As soon as a woman marries--well, somehow, she's through.

But it doesn't seem to make any difference to the man.

He can go right on doing the big things--the great things--" She stopped, arrested by the sound of a mandolin under her window.

The next moment the strains of Wally's tenor entered the room, mingled with the moonlight and the scent of the syringa bush.