She thought that women were not made for the struggle and turmoil of life— their place was the little world, the home; that their power lay not in votes but in influence over men and in making the minds of their children fine and splendid. She was not a reversion to type, which intimates the primordial; she suggested rather the incarnation of some goddess of the South Seas. Thus, more and more Ruth turned to the mongrel dog who bore the name of Rollo unflinchingly—the dog that adored her openly, shamelessly, who now without a whimper took his diurnal tubbing. Every inch of the house felt safe to her, small and welcoming. “It’s precious unromantic.
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