like a man who is about to commit a crime. The room did not betray the
slightest trace of femininity. A narrow bed without curtains; a
writing-table, bookshelves, a smaller table by the side of her bed, a
sofa. Just like his own room. There was no dressing-table, but a
little mirror hung on the wall.

Her dress was hanging on a nail. The lines of her body were clearly
defined on the thick, heavy serge. He caressed the material and hid
his face in the lace which trimmed the neck; he put his arm round the
waist, but the dress collapsed like a phantom. "They say the soul is a
spirit," he mused, "but then, it ought to be a tangible spirit, at
least." He approached the bed as if he expected to see an apparition.
He touched everything, took everything in his hand.

At last, as if he were looking for something, something which should
help him to solve the problem, he began to tug at the handles which
ornamented the drawers of her writing-table; all the drawers were
locked. As if by accident he opened the drawer of the little table by
her bedside, and hastily closed it again, but not before he had read
the title on the paper-cover of a small book and caught sight of a few
strange-looking objects, the purpose of which he could guess.

That was it then! _Facultative Sterility!_ What was intended for a
remedy for the lower classes, who have been robbed of the means of
existence, had become an instrument in the service of selfishness, the
last consequence of idealism. Were the upper classes so degenerate
that they refused to reproduce their species, or were they morally
corrupt? They must be both, for they considered it immoral to bring
illegitimate children into the world, and degrading to bear children
in wedlock.