“Indeed, there is neither Count nor Prince. I was thinking of my old home. I daren’t think of men with a man-hater like you near me.”
“Well, I won’t press you, my dear. But I’m not a man-hater,” and Margaret’s voice softened. “I sometimes think it would do me good to have a man to fuss about and look after. Men are such helpless things. They wobble from one pretty girl to another, and I believe they can’t help it. What they want is some woman to mother them. I really think I would want to mother a man just as I want to take care of babies, and as I love to take care of you, dearie!”
Helène looked at her friend. Poor, lonely Margaret, she thought, God had made her to be a mother. The revelation into her friend’s soul was too sacred to speak about. With instinctive courtesy she changed her tone covering what she had seen with a veil of light words:
“I’m sure, Margy dear, there are men who are not what you call ‘wobblers.’ I haven’t known many, but I’m convinced there are loyal and true men. My father was one.”
“I have no answer to that, Helen. I believe it. But as there are not many girls like you, there cannot be many men like your father was. Well, dear, it’s getting late and we ought to be in bed. To-morrow will be another ‘scorcher,’ and we have the new models to go over. And this weather doesn’t improve the dispositions of the women who want to wear corsets two sizes too small for them—like Madame Lucile does.”
Helène laughed. “Now you are not just to her. I don’t think she does that.”
“Don’t you, sweetheart? Well, never mind, I know better. A woman would be anything rather than fat. Why, even I am sometimes afraid to eat.”
“Oh, Margy, how can you! You are not a bit stout, only big and strong. Everybody admires you, and Madame is always praising your fine figure.”
“You’re an angel, my dear, and wouldn’t hurt the feelings of a tax-collector. Give me a kiss, my dear, and good night.”
“Good night, Margy, and thank you for the happy day.”