If indeed one of these unhappy women ventured to write a plain,
unvarnished, but poignant, description of her inner life, where would
she find a publisher daring enough to let his name appear on the cover
of the book?

I once knew a man who, stirred by a good and noble impulse, and
confident of his power, endeavoured to "save" a very young girl whom he
had rescued from a house of ill-fame. He took her home and treated her
like a sister. He lavished time and confidence upon her. His pride at
the transformation which took place in her passed all bounds. The girl
was as grateful as a mongrel and as modest as the bride in a romantic
novel. He then resolved to make her his wife. But one fine day she
vanished, leaving behind her a note containing these words: "Many thanks
for your kindness, but you bore me."

During the whole time they had lived together, he had not grasped the
faintest notion of the girl's true nature; nor understood that to keep
her contented it was not sufficient to treat her kindly, but that she
required some equivalent for the odious excitements of the past.

* * * * *

All feminine confessions--except those between relations which are
generally commonplace and uninteresting--assume a kind of beauty in my
eyes; a warmth and solemnity that excuses the casting aside of all
conventional barriers.

I remember one day--a day of oppressive heat and the heavy perfume of
roses--when, with a party of women friends, we began to talk about
tears. At first no one ventured to speak quite sincerely; but one thing