“There’s no answer to that,” said Mrs. Baxter.
“I fancy not,” said Wilsey. “I think I put the essence of it in that sentence.”
“If ever women get into power in this country, I shall live abroad.”
“O Mrs. Baxter,” said Mrs. Wayne, “really you don’t understand women—”
“I don’t? Why, Mrs. Wayne, I am a woman.”
“All human beings are spiteful and inaccurate and all those things you said; but that isn’t all they are. The women I see, the wives of my poor drunkards are so wonderful, so patient. They are mothers and wage-earners and sick nurses, too; they’re not the sort of women you describe. Perhaps,” she added, with one of her fatal impulses toward concession, “perhaps your friends are untrustworthy and spiteful, as you say—”
Mrs. Baxter drew herself up. “My friends, Mrs. Wayne,” she said—“my friends, I think, will compare favorably even with the wives of your drunkards.”
Mr. Lanley rose to his feet.
“Shall we go up-stairs?” he said. Mr. Wilsey offered Mrs. Baxter his arm. “An admirable answer that of yours,” he murmured as he led her from the room, “admirable snub to her perfectly unwarranted attack on you and your friends.”
“Of course you realize that she doesn’t know any of the people I know,” said Mrs. Baxter. “Why should she begin to abuse them?”