"Oh."
She was disappointed. She had fled in revulsion from her husband's act; she had no similar scruples about me.
On the contrary.
I thought that if she possessed even a little insight into that single pair of facts she might be a happier girl. And I also thought that any attempt to supply the insight by pointing out the two inconsistent attitudes would only tighten the hold of her small, personal dilemma. She would deny the very suggestion; she would use all her energy to authenticate the denial—immediately—and in the weeks, months, years to come—use it to kid herself. Not to investigate herself.
So I said, "It's a good way to learn. Lots of gals get women teachers in dancing school. Men embarrass them."
"Really?"
"Sure."
"You mean—if I went and enrolled and asked for a girl teacher—nobody would think I was—queer?"
"Thousands do."
"I never knew it." She said that almost to herself—and hurried on, as if to expunge it. "We had a man teacher that came to the house—and I was always afraid to go to a school—for fear I'd get some slimy gigolo—"