Bambi

Professor James Parkhurst, I consider you a colossal failure as an educator, said Francesca, his daughter, known to friend and family as Bambina, or Bambi for short.
Professor Parkhurst lifted a startled face from his newspaper and surveyed his only child across the breakfast table.
My dear, what causes this sweeping assertion of my incompetence?
I do! I do! Just what did you expect me to do when I grew up?
Why, to be happy.
That's the profession you intended me for? Who's to pay the piper? It's expensive to be happy and also unlucrative.
I have always expected to support you until your husband claimed that privilege.
Suppose I want a husband who can't support me?
Dear me, that would be unfortunate. It is the first duty of a husband to support his wife.
Old-fashioned husbands, yes—but not modern ones. Lots of men marry to be supported nowadays. How on earth could I support the man I love?
You are not without talents, my dear.
Talents? You almost said accomplishments! If you were not living in the Pliocene age, Professor James Parkhurst, you would know that accomplishments are a curse—accomplishment is the only thing that counts. I can sing a little, play the piano a little, auction bridge a good deal; I can cook, and sew fancy things. The only thing I can do well is to dance, and no real man wants to be supported by his wife's toes.