“That depends entirely upon the way you look at it. I must confess that I am somewhat of the old school myself, and therefore I don’t particularly approve of your modern ‘feminists,’ as I believe they choose to call themselves.”
“Just what is your definition of ‘feminist,’ ” asked Hugh. “And why the disapproval?”
“Because,” and there was a dreaminess in Hammond’s eyes that would have astonished many a judge and lawyer in New York city, could they but have seen it, “they have tried to replace the most wonderful women of all times—the women of bygone years—the women our mothers were. Instead of glorying in wifehood and motherhood—the true mission of every womanly woman—they launch forth into politics or business or professions with ambitions and determinations worthy of men, or else they fritter their lives away, becoming more and more useless every day.”
“Why, Hammond, you speak as though you have been the victim of a bitter experience.”
“No,” was the answer, with a shake of the head, “I’m not speaking from experience at all—I’m speaking from observation. In my career, I can view the drama of Life from a front-seat.”
“Strange,” Hugh meditated. “In all the years that I have known you, John Hammond, I never once suspected that you, with your abrupt manner and stern demeanor could be an idealist.”
“Well,” he laughed, “I wouldn’t go quite so far as to say I am an idealist, but I do admire and hold in the highest esteem a true woman.”
“But you won’t permit your ideas to influence you—you’ll be perfectly fair with me?” Hugh demanded.
“I always try to be fair, Benton—but in this case I’ll be more than fair, inasmuch as we will not consider this an interview between client and attorney, but a talk—between friends.”
“Fine, Hammond—I couldn’t ask for more. Now, then, as I told you before, Mrs. Benton and myself have agreed to separate.”