They smoked in silence for a while, and then Dr. Mary said suddenly:
"Some day I am going to write an article on the Biological Why of Women's Faith in Each Other."
"Outline it now. Maybe I can incorporate some of it in the talk."
"I can't. I don't know myself. It's not written yet. But it is funny, isn't it, how women in the aggregate do annoy one, and yet at bottom each one of the mass has the same qualities of the individual woman, who keeps our faith burning. I once went to a conference of women physicians, and it almost drove me wild. There's something about my own sex en masse that depresses me dreadfully. And yet, each one of those doctors was an able woman, and I would have enjoyed an hour with her more than with any man I had ever met."
"I know. I believe in my congress idea, but sometimes I wish I could put it over without ever having to go near anybody. Trade Unions and Consumers' Leagues and things like that aren't so bad, but these clubs!—And yet it is just where most of the energy is going to waste. They always make me feel like an overgrown, gawky boy, and as if all my clothes were on wrong."
A few days later, as Jean stood on the raised dais waiting for the well-bred clapping to cease, she almost wished she had urged Mary to come. She could never do it justice, never.
The perfectly appointed clubrooms were crowded with beautiful gowned women all looking toward her in polite interest. There was no enthusiasm and no inattention. Beneath their interest in her as a public person, was a restrained curiosity as to her as a woman. Jean had long ago become used to being considered a growing force in her world, but she knew these women had gauged to a cent the price of the furs she had laid off in the anteroom and that the simple way she did her hair, in a rather tight wad at the nape of her neck, was in some way connected in their minds with indifference to masculine interest or inability to capture it.
The applause ceased and the room rustled to silence. They sat waiting, their white gloved hands graceful in their laps, their chins raised, their well kept, unvital bodies in repose. Seen so, from the dais, they all looked bewilderingly alike, as if many artists had faithfully copied a model, varying as little as possible. Jean wondered what they would do if she should begin:
"'Licensed prostitutes,' I am here this afternoon——"
She smiled. All the faces below smiled, one large smile cut up into pieces.