After they had gone, Mrs. Whitney's disgust was as plain as her horror of
their appetite for cake and other creature comforts. But the storm broke
in earnest a day or two later, after the last reception we shall ever hold
together.
I can't describe it. I don't understand it. Women are fast leaving the
city; it was too late for an "evening."
But that made no difference; I do not deceive myself. I am pressing with
my shoulders against a mountain barrier--the prejudice of women--and it
never, never yields. Active opposition I could fight; but the tactics are
now to ignore me. In response to cards, I get "regrets," or women simply
stay away.
Men--ah, yes, there are always men, and many of them like as well as
admire me. But there is a subtle something that affects every man's
thought of a woman of whom women disapprove. They don't condemn me--ah, a
man can be generous!--they imagine they allow for women's jealousies; but
deep in their hearts lies hid the suspicion that only women are qualified
judges of women. They respect me, but they reserve judgment; and they do
not wholly respect themselves, for in order to see me, they evade their
lawful guardians--their wives and mothers.
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