Visitor. Yes, and they all felt as you did at first (she enumerates the names of three or four other modern women with social ambitions).
Mrs. Sherman. And did they all consent to talk to you?
Visitor. Every one, and they all gave me their photographs.
Mrs. Sherman (faintly). Photographs? You don't mean that you wish a photograph? That would be too dreadful.
Visitor (soothingly). You wouldn't wish to mar the completeness of the series. People like to see those who talk to them.
Mrs. Sherman. But I have nothing to say to them.
Visitor. Leave that to me. You have spoken already. Everything about you speaks—your face, your personal belongings, your household usages. While I have been sitting here I have observed a host of things which talk eloquently of your ideas, your principles, and your tastes. Just the things the public thirst to know about a woman like you. Leave it all to me. I will write it out and send you the proof, and, if it isn't just right, you can alter it to suit yourself (blithely). And the photograph?
Mrs. Sherman. Must I?
Visitor (firmly and boldly). Public people think nothing of that nowadays. It's a matter of course. You would have had a right to feel offended if I hadn't included you in my article. You wouldn't have been pleased, would you now, to see interviews with other progressive women, and your face and personality excluded? Just look at it in that light. It is disagreeable to me to intrude and force my way, and invade privacy, but I have a duty to the public to perform, and from that point of view I count on you to help me.
Mrs. Sherman. Perhaps I ought. Er—would you like it now?