Why, the very day before, we had been "at home," Mrs. Whitney and I, and hardly a soul that counts was here. Mrs. Van Dam had a convenient headache; I haven't seen her since Peggy's wedding. If she had not been so very civil—she and Mrs. Henry—I might think that even then she suspected that Strathay—
There were a few correct, vapid young men in gray trousers and long frock coats among our guests that day, but none worth serious attention. And the women!
One creature tucked tracks under the tea cloth, whereat Mrs. Whitney's pinched nose was elevated. Ethel saw the action—in spite of her mother and sister, the poor girl clings to me; I suppose it's natural that she should love beauty—and hopping round the table at the first chance, she pulled out one, chuckling mightily.
"'Favour is deceitful and beauty is vain,'" she quoted in undertone; "oh, Nelly, take your share of the unco guid and the riders of hobby horses, and be thankful it's no larger."
Ethel doesn't know how great it is. There was the woman who insists on gloating over me as a proof of the superiority of her sex; the woman who had written a book, the woman who would talk about Karma, and the woman—there was more than one—who would talk about the Earl.
After they had gone, Mrs. Whitney's disgust was as plain as her horror of their appetite for cake and other creature comforts. But the storm broke in earnest a day or two later, after the last reception we shall ever hold together.
I can't describe it. I don't understand it. Women are fast leaving the city; it was too late for an "evening."
But that made no difference; I do not deceive myself. I am pressing with my shoulders against a mountain barrier—the prejudice of women—and it never, never yields. Active opposition I could fight; but the tactics are now to ignore me. In response to cards, I get "regrets," or women simply stay away.
Men—ah, yes, there are always men, and many of them like as well as admire me. But there is a subtle something that affects every man's thought of a woman of whom women disapprove. They don't condemn me—ah, a man can be generous!—they imagine they allow for women's jealousies; but deep in their hearts lies hid the suspicion that only women are qualified judges of women. They respect me, but they reserve judgment; and they do not wholly respect themselves, for in order to see me, they evade their lawful guardians—their wives and mothers.
It may have been the wine—I overheard two young cads making free of my house to discuss my affairs.