“The sort of girl who ignores the customs which make us what we are. We don’t stand a chance with professional women any more. We don’t compare in interest to girls who are arbiters of their own destinies.
“Take the stage as an illustration. Once the popularity of women who made it their profession was due partly to glamour, partly because that art drew to it and concentrated the very best-looking among us. But it’s something else now that attracts men; it’s the attraction of women who are doing something––clever, experienced, interesting, girls who know how to take care of themselves and who are not afraid to give to 344 men a frank and gay companionship outside those conventional limits which circumscribe us.”
Elorn nodded.
“It’s quite true,” said Leila. “The independent professional girl to-day, whatever art or business engages her, is the paramount attraction to men.
“A few do sneak back to us after a jolly caper in the open––a few timid ones, or snobs of sorts––thrifty, perhaps, or otherwise material, or cautious. But that’s about all we get as husbands in these devilish days of general feminine bouleversement. And it’s a sad and instructive fact, Elorn. But there seems to be nothing to do about it.”
Elorn said musingly: “The main thing seems to be that men admire a girl’s effort to get somewhere––when she happens to be good-looking.”
“It’s a cynical fact, dear; they certainly do. And now that they realise they have to marry these girls if they want them––why, they do.”
Elorn dissected her ice. “You know Stanley Wardner,” she remarked.
“Mortimer Wardner’s son?”
Elorn nodded. “He became a queer kind of sculptor. I think it is called a Concentrationist. Well, he’s concentrated for life, now.”