The philosopher had gone too far. There were some angry murmurs
among the women and Ginx's face grew dark. He was thinking of
"all those years" and the poor creature that from morning to
night and Sunday to Sunday, in calm and storm, had clung to his
rough affections: and the bright eyes, and the winding arms so
often trellised over his tremendous form, and the coy tricks and
laughter that had cheered so many tired hours. He may have been
much of a brute, but he felt that, after all, that sort of thing
was denied to dogs and pigs. Before he could translate his
thoughts into words or acts a shrewd-looking, curly-haired
stonemason, who stood by with his tin on his arm, cut into the
discussion.
STONEMASON. Your doctrines won't go down here, Mr. Philosopher.
I've 'eard of them before. I'd just like to ask you what a man's
to do and what a woman's to do if they don't marry: and if they
do, how can you honestly hinder them from having any children?
The stonemason had rudely struck out the cardinal issues of the
question.
PHILOSOPHER. Well, to take the last point first, there are
physical and ethical questions involved in it, which it is hard
to discuss before such an audience as this.
STONEMASON.
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