He looked quizzically at me; he thinks I plead poverty as a joke; Cadge would never tell him how I have tried to borrow.
"'Twould be a hard case, supposing it possible," he said, "because you would want a good deal of money, and because you'd be a bother to have 'round—too beautiful. You couldn't sell many newspaper stories, because you'd soon cease to be a novelty as a special, and would get a press ticket to City Hall Park. Reporting's another coloured horse altogether—poor pay, and takes training to get it. Beauty's a disadvantage even there; too much beauty. Tell you what you could do, though, if ever you should want to earn money—go on the stage."
"Girl I knew," said Cadge, "made a pot of money going round to summer resorts, giving women lessons, energizing and decomposing; kind of Delsarte; said it made her 'most die—to see 'em rolling on the floor like elephants, trying to get lean, and eating 'emselves fat four times a day, with caramels between—and not be able to laugh. Might try the Barnard girls. It can't be sure beauty to be up there; I've seen some of 'em. Say now; that's not so bad—'How to be Helen; in Twenty Lessons.' Or say, Princess; answer the great question: 'Does Soap Hurt the Skin?'"
She grinned. Cadge fancies, I suppose, that by any mail I may get a big check from home.
"You display almost human intelligence," said Pros, admiringly; "stage's better, though."
"But, Mr. Reid, that's too public."
"Inherited instinct; no more public than—than being a beauty." He gazed at me with mild audacity,—"Money getting's prosaic, off the stage. Most girls who want cash become tiddlety-wink typewriters at eight per; bargain price; fully worth four. Now that isn't your class; if $8 a week would satisfy you, which it wouldn't, do you suppose there's an office in town that'd have you? Men won't subject their clerks to the white light of beauty; wives won't stand for it, either. There are places where no girl can get work unless she's pulchritudinous. Catch the idea? A pretty London barmaid can't draw more beer than an ugly one, but draws more custom. What's a Princess to do with such jobs? You'd be like the man who wouldn't be fool enough to marry any woman who'd be fool enough to have him—in getting work, I mean. This is the other side of all that rot about Woman's Century and Woman's Widening Sphere. Never go into an office, Miss Winship; my wife won't, when we're married."
"'Cause she'll be in one already," interrupted Cadge; "why, if I had to mope 'round all day in a flat, I'd be driven to drink—club tea. Imagine it; Cadge Bryant a clubwoman!"
"Clubwomaning is exciting enough, election time."
"But men get money," I persisted. "Isn't there anything a girl can do?"