Algitha laughed.
“It is somewhat self-regarding certainly, in spite of the incessant renunciation and sacrifice.”
“Oh, self-sacrifice in a woman, is always her easiest course. It is the nearest approach to luxury that society allows her,” cried Hadria, irascibly.
“It is most refreshing to hear you exaggerate, once more, with the old vigour,” her sister cried.
“If I have a foible, it is under-statement,” returned Hadria, with a half-smile.
“Then I think you haven’t a foible,” said Algitha.
“That I am ready to admit; but seriously, women seem bent on proving that you may treat them as you like, but they will ‘never desert Mr. Micawber.’”
Algitha smiled.
“They are so mortally afraid of getting off the line and doing what might not be quite right. They take such a morbid interest in their own characters. They are so particular about their souls. The female soul is such a delicate creation—like a bonnet. Look at a woman trimming and poking at her bonnet—that’s exactly how she goes on with her soul.”
Algitha laughed and shrugged her shoulders.