“Some man—some damned man—no, don’t tell me—poor little Horatia—won’t you believe me when I tell you none of them is worth it? I wish to heaven that women would stop letting themselves suffer. They’ve borne the emotional burdens long enough. Why shouldn’t we take men as they take us—as part of the day’s work? Look here, Horatia, you’re worth any ten men I ever saw. Don’t let them wear you down.”
“I’m not.”
“You look frazzled.”
“I thought you liked men,” said Horatia, irrelevantly, “and disliked women.”
“I like men and I like women when they are individuals—but women in relation to men are usually unspeakable—and men in relation to women are vile. We need to stand alone, Horatia—to shake things off. To feel—and to know when to stop feeling.”
“To stop feeling,” repeated Horatia.
Grace leaned over and put her hand on the other girl’s.
“It’s hard—but it can be done,” she said and there was almost a mesmeric quality in her sure, slow voice.
“I think we do need to learn that,” agreed Horatia.
She rose to go.