classifications. It is all the same from daffodils up to women."

"How do we classify women, pray?"

"In the mind of man," began Mae, as if she were reading, "there are
three classes of women; the giddy butterflies, the busy bees, and the
woman's righters. The first are pretty and silly; the second, plain
and useful; the third, mannish and odious. The first wear long trailing
dresses and smile at you while waltzing, the second wear aprons and give
you apple-dumplings, and the third want your manly prerogatives, your
dress-coat, your money, and your vote. Flirt with the giddy butterflies,
your first love was one. First loves always are. Marry the busy bee.
Your mother was a busy bee. Mothers always are. And keep on the other
side of the street from the woman's righter as long as you can. Alas!
your daughter will be one."

"Well, isn't there any classifying on the other side? Aren't there
horsemen and sporting men and booky men, in the feminine mind?"

"Perhaps so. There certainly are the fops, and nowadays this terrible
army of reformers and radicals, of whom my brother Albert here is the
best known example."

"What is it?" asked Albert, looking up abstractedly from his book, for
he and Eric had sauntered up the stairs too, by this time.

"They are the creatures," continued Mae, "who scorn joys and idle
pleasures. They deal with the good of the many and the problems of the
universe, and step solemnly along to that dirge known as the March of
Progress. And what do they get for it all? Something like this. Put down