Edna winced and shivered.
“You sent her away to begin to be a lady. And a lady she is—and ladies are not daughters—are not women even.”
“You must help me, Godfrey,” said Edna, after a strained silence. “Margot is wretched, and a dreadful scandal may break out in time. Already people are talking. Margot is ashamed to show herself in public. She thinks everyone is laughing at her.”
“No doubt she’s right,” said I. “A woman who loses her husband on the honeymoon is likely to be laughed at.... What did she do?”
“Why do you persist in saying that?” cried she, so irritated that she could not altogether restrain herself. “Your dislike of women has become a mania with you.”
“But I don’t dislike them,” replied I. “On the contrary, I like them—like them so well that their worthlessness angers me like the treachery of a friend. And I believe so much in their power that, when things go wrong, I blame them. They have dominion over the men and over the children. And whenever they use their powers it is to make fools of the men and weaklings of the children. I don’t know which is the worse influence—the wishy-washy, unpractical, preacher morality of the good woman or the lazy, idle, irresponsible dissipation of the—the ladies and near-ladies and lady-climbers and lady-imitators.”
“But this has nothing to do with poor Margot!” exclaimed she impatiently.
“Everything to do with her,” replied I. “Still—it’s a spilt pail of milk. As for the present—and future— How can I do anything to help her?”
“You can’t, if you condemn her unheard.”
“I don’t condemn her. I am simply recognizing that there are two sides to this quarrel. And I assure you, you only make matters worse when you interfere without recognizing that fact. So I say again, what did she do?”