“She’s a woman of the world, my dear.”
“She was just pulling me to pieces! She wanted to see how I worked! Don’t you see what she was looking for, Thyrsis—she thought I was material!”
“She only writes about the Greeks,” said Thyrsis, with a smile.
“I’m a horrible example! I’m neurasthenic and self-centred—I’m the modern woman! She read me a long lecture like that! I ought to get busy!”
“Dearest!” he pleaded, trying to soothe her.
“Busy”! repeated Corydon, laughing hysterically. “Busy! I wash and dress and amuse a baby! I get six meals a day for him, I get three meals for us, and clean up everything. And the rest of the day I’m so exhausted I can hardly stand up, and a good part of the time I’m sick besides. And then, if I think about my troubles, it’s because I’ve nothing to do!”
“My dear,” Thyrsis replied, “you should not have put yourself at her mercy.”
“How I hate her!” cried Corydon. “How I hate her!”
“You must learn to protect yourself from such people, Corydon.”
“I won’t meet them at all! I’m not able to face them—I’ve none of their weapons, none of their training. I don’t want to know about them, or their kind of life! They have no souls!”