“Men who are not men—that must be another of Miss Ethel’s pleasantries,” thought Yvonne.
Ethel looked at her water-color, throwing back her shoulders to judge better of the effect. What she did not understand was that a young woman like Yvonne should accommodate herself to such a state of affairs—Yvonne, who but now, during the squabble with Miss Arabella, had the decided air of some Gaulish Amazon. Why should she be so timid with regard to such insolent dogs? She felt really a lofty and protecting pity for this sister of an old country, nice as she was.
“Men such as that!” she began again, in a tone of contempt.
“Such as what?” Yvonne timidly asked. “Do you mean workmen, men with blouses—those of whom you were just speaking—those who are not—”
“Who said anything like that?” replied Ethel. “Dress has nothing to do with it.”
“It’s their profession, then?” Yvonne asked again; “or is it nationality? The Englishman is different from the Frenchman—the German—”
“Ochsenmaulsalatsfabrikant!” Ethel interrupted.
“All go to make up so many different types, I know,” Mlle. Yvonne continued.
“It’s nothing of all that!” said Ethel, seriously. “When I say a man I speak neither of an officer nor of a lawyer nor of a doctor nor a workman nor a prince. Rich or poor, German, English, or French—it doesn’t matter!”
The students had gathered round. They asked one another what Miss Rowrer meant—who, then, is the rara avis that is neither this nor that—not a workman, not a prince?