"Just think," she said, "if a woman lives seventy years, and the washing is done once a week, you might say she spent one-seventh of her life—or ten whole years—at the meanest hardest work that was ever invented—"
"They don't do the washing when they're children," said Helen.
"No, but they hate it just as much. I used to see them on wash days when
Aunt Patty took me around, and I always felt sorry for the children."
Wally came in later and listened sadly to the news of the day.
"You're only using yourself up," he said, "for a lot of people who don't care a snap of the finger for you. It seems to me," he added, "that you'd be doing better to make one man happy who loves you, than try to please a thousand women who never, never will."
She thought that over, for this was an angle which hadn't occurred to her before.
"No," she said, "I'm not doing it to gain anything for myself, but to lift the poor women up—to give them something to hope for, something to live for, something to make them happier than they are now. Yes, and from everybody's point of view, I think I'm doing something good. Because when the woman is miserable, she can generally make her man miserable. But when the woman is happy, she can nearly always make the man happy, too."
"I wish you'd make me happy," sighed poor Wally.
"Here comes Helen," said Mary with just the least trace of wickedness in her voice. "She'll do her best, I'm sure."
Helen was dressed for the evening, her arms and shoulders gleaming, her coiffure like a golden turban.