Diana paused in the act of brushing out a long bright ripple of hair. Her eyes grew sombre—almost tragic.
“So they are!” she said. “They ask for it because they know God meant them to have it! They know they were created for lover-love, wife-love, mother-love,—just think what life means to them when cheated out of all three through the selfishness and treachery of man! Their blood gets poisoned—their thoughts share the bitterness of their blood—they are no longer real women; they become abnormal and of no sex,—they shriek with the Suffragettes, and put on trousers to go ‘on the land’ with the men—they do anything and everything to force men’s attention—forgetting that efforts made on the masculine line completely fail in attraction for the male sex. It is the sensual and physical side of a woman that subjugates a man,—therefore when she is past her youth she has little or no ‘chance,’ as they call it. If she happens to be brainless, she turns into a sour, grizzling, tea-drinking nonentity and talks nothing but scandal and diseases,—if she is intellectually brilliant, well!—sometimes she ‘rounds’ on the dogs that have bayed her into solitude, and, like a wounded animal, springs to her revenge!”
The words came impetuously from her lips, uttered in that thrillingly sweet voice which was her special gift and charm.
Sophy’s bright eyes opened in sheer astonishment.
“Why, Diana!” she exclaimed. “You talk like a tragedy queen!”
Diana shrugged her shoulders lightly.
“Do I?” and she slowly resumed the brushing of her hair. “There’s nothing in what I say but the distinctly obvious. Love is the necessity of life to a woman, and when that fails——”
“Diana, Diana!” interrupted Sophy, shaking a warning finger at her—“you talk of love as if it really were the ‘ideal’ thing described by poets and romancists, when it’s only the sugar-paper to attract and kill the flies! We women begin life by believing in it; but every married friend of mine tells me that all the ‘honey’ of the ‘moon’ is finished in a couple of months, never again to be found in the pot-au-feu of matrimony! Out of a thousand men taken at random perhaps one will really love, in the best and finest sense; the rest are only swayed by animal passion such as is felt by the wolf, the bear, or even the rabbit!—I really think the rabbit is the most exact prototype! How many wives one knows whose husbands not only neglect them, but are downright rude to them!—Why, my dear, your notion of ‘love’ is a dream, beyond all realisation!”
“Possibly!” and Diana went on with her hair-brushing. “But whatever it is, or whatever I imagined it to be, I don’t want it now. I want—revenge!”
“Revenge?” Sophy gave a little start of surprise. “You? You, always gentle, patient and adaptable! You want ‘revenge’? On whom? On what?”