Women are, in this respect, worse off than men. Their greater insight and quicker divination enable them to judge mercilessly and with unfortunate accuracy. Since they have joined us in the great work of analysis (with but poor results from a literary point of view, but mighty profits to the printer), the seamy side has been held up to inquiring eyes with the veriest shamelessness. Surely we know the worst of human nature now, and most certainly those who are running behind us in the race, those little children and soft-eyed maidens, can read even as they run.
Brenda Gilholme was a living protest against mental cultivation as it is understood to-day. Her exceptionally capable mind was the victim of over-education and a cheap literature. Beneath that soft brown hair was a fund of classical knowledge sufficient for the requirements of an Oxford professor, theology enough for a deacon, geometry mixed up with political economy, geography and algebra, general knowledge, and no arithmetic worth speaking of. All this, forsooth, added to a taste for music, and an innate power of making it very sweetly. And all for what? To be wisely forgotten as soon as possible—let us hope. The best woman and the truest lady I know has never seen an examination paper in her life. At least, I believe she has not. Filial respect withholds my question.
It is rather disappointing to come freshly into a world of men and women and find it sorely wanting. This Brenda had done. The women appeared to her affected and ignorant, because with her they were not quite at ease by reason of her deep education. The men were trivial or narrow. This one knew more geometry than she did, but of classics and theology he knew nothing. Another was well versed in theology, while of political economy he could speak but haltingly, and so on. Each was in his narrow sphere; she knew too much for all, and could apply it to nothing because she was a woman. She had been taught that knowledge was power—that the whole world passed the Cambridge examinations—that women were born to muddle their sweet inconsistent brains over deep questions relative to semi-preserved languages, to weary their young eyes over imperfectly printed algebraical problems, and to learn many things which they are best without.
But with it all Brenda Gilholme was a woman. Instead of puzzling her daring brains over questions which have never yet been approached with safety, she would have done better had she knelt down and thanked God for that same womanliness. And being a woman, she weakly thought that all men are not alike. She fondly imagined that an exception had been especially created and placed within her own sphere.
Presently she stopped walking, and stood beside the low rail, grasping an awning-stanchion with one hand. The wistful, discontented look left her eyes, which were clear and blue, with long dark lashes, and in its place came an interested, keen expression.
'I think,' she said aloud, 'I see him coming. There is a small sail away down the fjord.'
Mrs. Wylie looked up vaguely.
'Yes,' she answered absently; 'I dare say you are right!'