“A good deal of heroism of a certain kind is practised, though, even thus,” replied Margaret. “Many a man who raises himself from a lowly position to a lofty one does it much more for the sake of his wife and children than for his own.”
“Oh, yes! And dies on the field, content to have won a carriage for his widow, and funds for the gambling purposes of his sons. What astonishes me is that women can accept such heroic sacrifices for such small ends. But I am afraid that we are all becoming about as mean as mice; at least, if we are to be measured by the topics of our talk at afternoon tea.”
“Ah! but we are not. We are so foolishly and wickedly afraid of revealing our best to one another that we pretend to be as frivolous and heartless as we possibly can. It is a great fraud, and some of us have eyes keen enough to see through it. I always find it difficult to keep from laughing when you, Tom, make believe to be interested in the edifying tales that are told about your neighbours.”
“It is abominable, Margaret, and I hate it. Fine companions for true men are we, if we are to be judged by our own representations of ourselves! And we might do so much; for we really have a good deal of power over men.”
Margaret smiled significantly.
“‘Ah! wasteful woman,’” she quoted. “And yet, you know, there is nothing a woman really cares so much about as the good opinion of her male friends.”
“Oh, I know it is the men’s fault in the first place; but we are to be their helpers, not their slaves.”
“I will tell you where I think our help might come in. You remember when we were in London last we saw quite a crowd of girls coming out of a low-looking public-house, some of them half-tipsy?”
“I should think I do remember it. Who that had once seen such a sight could ever forget it?”
“But the girls would never have gone in of themselves. It was because of the young men who were there. The girls would be easily dealt with if once they could understand that that sort of thing disgusts men.”