Visitor (saccharinely). I should not think of publishing anything contrary to your wishes.
Mrs. Sherman. It would be quite impossible. My husband would be very much annoyed. Besides, it would be so ridiculous. I have nothing to say.
Visitor. Mr. Sherman is such a distinguished-looking man. I admire iron-gray hair and mustaches. Indeed, every one would be very much interested in anything you were to say. You are a woman of ideas—a progressive woman. The public is interested in progressive women, and I think such women owe it to the public to let them understand and appreciate them.
Mrs. Sherman. But I'm only a private individual. It might be different if I were an author or other public character; though I don't approve at all of people who parade themselves and their ideas in the newspapers. There! I have hurt your feelings.
Visitor (with her air of pathos). No, dear lady. I'm only a little discouraged. If the public wish to know and progressive people refuse to tell them, what becomes of the reporter who is obliged to furnish copy and to obey orders?
Mrs. Sherman. It is a hard life, I'm sure. But—but, if I'm not impertinent——
Visitor (interrupting). You're going to ask how I came to take it up as a profession. Yes, it is hard; but I glory in it (proudly). I'm not ashamed of it. It's a progressive life, too. But it is a little discouraging at times (sadly). You have such a lovely home, Mrs. Sherman; elegance without ostentatious display; taste everywhere without extravagance. I should so like to describe it.
Mrs. Sherman. Oh, but you mustn't. Were you ordered to—er—write about me?
Visitor. Yes, dear lady. You are to be one of a series—"Half-hour Chats with our Progressive Women," that's the title.
Mrs. Sherman. Have you—er—been to see any one else?