thinks will please you, you would find she has a religious conviction
that Dot Perrybingle in "The Cricket of the Hearth," and Ouida's Lord
Chandos were actually a materializable an and a reasonable gentleman,
either of whom might be met with anywhere in their proper circles, I
would be willing to stand trial for perjury on the statement that I've
known admirable women--far above the average, really showing signs of
moral discrimination--who have sniveled pitifully over Nancy Sykes and
sniffed scornfully at Mrs. Tess Durbeyfield Clare. It is due to their
constitution and social heredity. Women do not strive and yearn and
stalk abroad for the glorious pot of intellectual gold at the end of the
rainbow; they pick and choose and, having chosen, sit down straightway
and become content. And a state of contentment is an abomination in the
sight of man. Contentment is to be sought for by great masculine minds
only with the purpose of being sure never quite to find it.

* * * * *

For all practical purposes, therefore--except perhaps as object lessons
of "the incorrect method" in reading novels--women, as novel-readers,
must be considered as not existing. And, of course, no offense is
intended. But if there be any weak-kneed readers who prefer the
gilt-wash of pretty politeness to the solid gold of truth, let them
understand that I am not to be frightened away from plain facts by any
charge of bad manners.

On the contrary, now that this disagreeable interruption has been forced
upon me--certainly not through any seeking of mine--it may be better to
speak out and settle the matter. Men who have the happiness of being in
the married state know that nothing is to be gained by failing to settle
instantly with women who contradict and oppose them. Who was that mellow