"No woman ever dressed like that?" echoed Mr. Robbins, with a mocking laugh; "why, neighbor Baker, where have you been hiding so long that you 're so behind the times?"
"I 've not been hiding at all," said I, indignantly. "I 've been living in Evanston Avenue, and a very worthy locality it is, too!"
"And do you mean to tell me," asked Mr. Robbins, "that women don't ride the bicycle in Evanston Avenue?"
"Of course they do," said I, "but they don't look like that! The women that ride in Evanston Avenue wear dresses, the same as other women wear. This strange object (which you declare is a woman) wears pants!"
"Those ain't pants," said Mr. Robbins; "those are bloomers."
"I don't care what you call them," said I, "they 're pants just the same, and, what is more, very ill-fitting pants at that!"
"That," said Mr. Robbins, "is the new style of bicycle attire for the feminine sex. Shocking as it may appear to you, it is much more ample than the costume which I found to be popular among the female bicyclists of France during my visit to that country last summer."
"But you don't mean to tell me," said I, "that women make a practice of riding up and down Clarendon Avenue in pants!"
"Certainly, I do," said Mr. Robbins. "We do things in style over this way. Evanston Avenue is a century behind the times. Oh, you 'll learn a lot of things when you get moved over here into your new house."
"But I 'll not stand it!" I cried. "I 'll inform the police and I 'll have the law on these brazen creatures. What would Alice say! And what would become of Fanny and of little Josephine if they were brought up under the demoralizing influences of spectacles like that! Do you suppose I 'm going to have Galileo and Herschel corrupted? And little Erasmus—shall his pure, innocent mind be contaminated? Never, neighbor Robbins, never!"