“And you think men don’t want us free?” Hildegarde asked wearily.
“A very few may. There are more of the other sort.”
“Well, I know one man,” said the girl, cleansing consciousness with the vision, “one man who is the kind you’d say was an exception. I’m sure his not wanting me to come on this journey was just a natural shrinking from seeing any girl face hardships.”
Mrs. Locke set her fine little face like marble. “This entire ship might have been full of girls facing hardships, and it wouldn’t have cost him a pang. But I can well believe your coming did.”
“Ah, you see, you don’t know him.”
The other shook her head. “Even the best men haven’t got so far as to want to respect all women. Their good-will, their helpfulness, are kept in watertight compartments, reserved for particular women. The rest may go to the everlasting bonfire.”
“No, no, no.”
“Yes, it seems even to help them in being specially nice to some—”
“What helps them?”
“To have been brutes to others.” Mrs. Locke turned to go back into the horrible little cabin. “The best fellow I ever met told me that no man knew how to treat a woman who hadn’t stood over the grave of one he’d loved.”