“But soon after we moved to Brooklyn----”
Edna winced and shivered.
“You sent her away to begin to be a lady. And a lady she is--and ladies
are not daughters--are not women even.”
“You must help me, Godfrey,” said Edna, after a strained silence.
“Margot is wretched, and a dreadful scandal may break out in time.
Already people are talking. Margot is ashamed to show herself in
public. She thinks everyone is laughing at her.”
“No doubt she’s right,” said I. “A woman who loses her husband on the
honeymoon is likely to be laughed at.... What did she do?”
“Why do you persist in saying that?” cried she, so irritated that she
could not altogether restrain herself. “Your dislike of women has
become a mania with you.”
“But I don’t dislike them,” replied I. “On the contrary, I like
them--like them so well that their worthlessness angers me like the
treachery of a friend. And I believe so much in their power that, when
things go wrong, I blame them. They have dominion over the men and over
the children. And whenever they use their powers it is to make fools of
the men and weaklings of the children. I don’t know which is the worse
influence--the wishy-washy, unpractical, preacher morality of the good
woman or the lazy, idle, irresponsible dissipation of the--the ladies
and near-ladies and lady-climbers and lady-imitators.”
“But this has nothing to do with poor Margot!” exclaimed she
impatiently.
“Everything to do with her,” replied I. “Still--it’s a spilt pail of
milk. As for the present--and future-- How can I do anything to help
her?”
“You can’t, if you condemn her unheard.”
“I don’t condemn her. I am simply recognizing that there are two sides
to this quarrel. And I assure you, you only make matters worse when you
interfere without recognizing that fact. So I say again, what did _she_
do?”
My wife calmed slightly and replied: “He says she made him ridiculous
with the airs she put on.”