" "How so?" inquired Winifred. Better come another morning. I haven’t murdered any one, or broken the law in any way that I know of. From beginning to end it was first-hand stuff. What right had she to call herself “Alcide”? It was abominable, an imposture. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety. “Do you mean, aunt,” she asked, “that my father thought I had gone off—with some man?” “What else COULD he think? Would any one DREAM you would be so mad as to go off alone?” “After—after what had happened the night before?” “Oh, why raise up old scores? If you could see him this morning, his poor face as white as a sheet and all cut about with shaving! He was for coming up by the very first train and looking for you, but I said to him, ‘Wait for the letters,’ and there, sure enough, was yours. The queer phase of the dream was this, she was at no time a woman; she was symbolical of something, and he followed to learn what this something was. Winifred receives two Proposals.
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