Society makes no provision whatever for the Timsons, the Ferrands and Mrs. Megans. It has closed the door in their face, denying them a seat at the table of life. Yet when Guinevere Megan attempts to drown herself, a benevolent constable drags her out and a Christian Judge sends her to the workhouse.
Constable. Well, sir, we can't get over the facts, can we? . . . You know what soocide amounts to—it's an awkward job.
Wellwyn. But look here, Constable, as a reasonable man—This poor wretched little girl-you know what that life means better than anyone! Why! It's to her credit to try and jump out of it!
Constable. Can't neglect me duty, sir; that's impossible.
Wellwyn. Of all the d—d topsy-turvy—! Not a soul in the world wants her alive—and now she is to be prosecuted for trying to go where everyone wishes her.
Is it necessary to dwell on the revolutionary significance of this cruel reality? It is so all-embracing in its sweep, so penetrating of the topsy-turviness of our civilization, with all its cant and artifice, so powerful in its condemnation of our cheap theories and cold institutionalism which freezes the soul and destroys the best and finest in our being. The Wellwyns, Ferrands, and Megans are the stuff out of which a real humanity might be fashioned. They feel the needs of their fellows, and whatever
