“No wonder the girls come here in the hope of picking up a husband,” said Bylant. “This has always been a great marriage-mart, even in the days when visitors were practically all of one class. Now the opportunities are more casual, but in the big hotels there is dancing every night, girls are bound to meet men, and the number of engagements that come off every year in Atlantic City makes it the goal of all mothers with young daughters, whose social circle is narrow and mainly composed of women.”
He glanced out of the corner of his eye at Gita, who shrugged indifferently.
“Don’t your fellow mortals interest you in the least?” he asked.
“Rather.”
“But not the question of marriage?”
“Not a bit.”
“But would you like to think that all these pretty girls could never find a mate—and fulfil their destiny?”
“I always hope women will get everything they want, and if they are silly enough to want husbands, let ’em have ’em by all means.”
“But my dear Gita, is it possible you don’t realize that woman’s one chance of authentic happiness lies in love and mating?”
“I know they think it does—because they’ve been fed on traditions and are the slaves of custom. They’d be a long sight better off by themselves. Love is nothing but a cherished superstition.”