P. S. I almost apologize to Mr. Rolfs. This evening at the Club
House when Mrs. Hammond was sitting forward and monopolizing the
conversation, as she always does when Mrs. Laurence does not happen
to be present, and delivering her entirely commonplace opinions with a
vigour of enunciation and a raptness of expression which convince the
unanalytical that she is quite the reverse of the little goose she is,
Mr. Rolfs suddenly turned to me with such an expression of ferocious
disgust that involuntarily I moved closer to him.
“_That_ is what we have to write for!” he exclaimed. “There are
thousands, tens of thousands of these damned fool women that we have to
write down to and pose to if we want to make our bread and butter.”