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Often it is not that we are not
secretly much more of women, and better and cleverer women, than you think us. But
there is no call for such wares, so we lay character and
brain on the shelves to mildew, and fill the show-windows with confectionery
and illusion. We supply the demand. We always have supplied it, and we always
will. Of course, some of us get very
much disgusted with the debutantes. But, aside from the great superiority they
have over girls with thinking powers (in regard to the number
of men who admire them, for all men admire cooing girls with
dimples)--aside from this, I say, there is something to be said on their behalf. Don't you believe, you dear,
unsuspicious men, who dote upon their pliability and the trustfulness of their
innocent, limpid blue or brown-eyed gaze, which meets your own with such
implied flattery to your superior strength and intelligence--don't you
believe for one moment that the simple little dears do not know exactly
the part they are playing. They are twice as clever as the cleverest of you.
They feel that they are needed just as they are. The fashionable
schools are turning them out every year exactly as the untrained men
under thirty-five would wish them to be. They know this. Therefore they remain
as art has made them. Feeling themselves admired by the class of men they most
wish to attract, they have no incentive to improve. And yet, I suppose, untrained
men under thirty-five have their use in the world, aside from the part they
play in the discipline of discriminating young women. Girls even marry
these men. Lovely girls, too. Clever girls--girls who know a
hundred times more than their husbands, and are ten times finer grained. I
wonder if they love them, if they are satisfied with them, if ennui of the soul
is not a bitter thing to bear?
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