MR. BECKER. My dear Mrs. Brown, I cannot tell you what pleasure it has given me to have met you to-day, to come across one sensible, well balanced woman in this crowd of neurotic, hysterical feminists. Women are making the great mistake nowadays of thinking of themselves as a separate class instead of as a sex, that half of humanity which, keeping within its hemisphere of duties and responsibilities, makes the completion and perfection of the whole. The feminine sex is like—like a tire on the wheel of an automobile. The tire is of no use without the revolving power imparted by the engine to the wheel, and then it is the means of furnishing a smooth motion to the car and of preventing jars and dislocations of the machinery. This has always been woman’s true function, the elimination of the jolts of life so that men’s more aggressive activities may proceed gently on.
MRS. BROWN. Oh, Mr. Becker. What a charming expression and how original—women’s hemisphere. I have always rather resented the expression woman’s sphere—as if women had no share in the human interest but were apart by themselves. But women’s hemisphere! Why it reminds me of a cotillion figure where one goes around to find the holder of the other half of a favor. It is like clasping hands. Do let us shake hands on that expression, Mr. Becker. (They shake hands warmly.)
MR. BECKER. Yes, women seem to be losing sight of the fact that their interests are identical with those of men, that, therefore, they are represented now, and that to vote themselves would only mean sex antagonism and an increased multiplicity of our already too numerous ballots.
MRS. BROWN. What is that smell of scorching? Oh, Mr. Becker, I am afraid it is Cochon in the wood-box. It was too near the fire. Oh, take him away, quick!
MR. BECKER. (Lifting pig out of the wood-box.) It is only his blanket that is slightly scorched. Your pet seems to be all right, Mrs. Brown.
MRS. BROWN. Oh, my dear little piggy-wiggy. Did his muzzer forget all about her owny-tony, while she was talking about those horrid women’s rights? It was a shame, so it was. (Takes off blanket.) No, he is not hurt at all. How fortunate!
MR. BECKER. You do not admire Lamb’s Essay on Roast Pig, I take it, Mrs. Brown?
MRS. BROWN. An Essay on Roast Pig? What a subject. Is it a cook-book?
MR. BECKER. No, but a very appetizing article. If you should read it, Mrs. Brown, you would regret that you remembered your pet so soon. I will send you a copy of the essay.