She laughed. CHAPTER XXV Spurlock pushed back his helmet and sat down in the white sand, buckling his knees and folding his arms around them—pondering. She thought of the smiles she would gather when she brought forth his first grandson. For a time she brooded on the ideals and suggestions of the Socialists, on the vague intimations of an Endowment of Motherhood, of a complete relaxation of that intense individual dependence for women which is woven into the existing social order. Spurlock knew that somewhere along the way he would write a story worth while. "Something's wrong. We, ourselves, are scarcely the same we were twelve years ago. As silent as she had remained about who had brought her home last night. “I think,” he said, “that I am right.
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