created that was good beyond doubt, perhaps God had paid her the special
compliment of leaving the approval unspoken, as being in a sense
supererogatory. At best, either of these dispositions of the matter is,
of course, far-fetched, maybe even frivolous. The fact still remains by
the record. And it is beyond doubt awkward and embarrassing, because
ill-natured men can refer to it in moments of hatefulness--moments
unfortunately too frequent.

Is it possible that this last creation was a mistake of Infinite Charity
and Eternal Truth? That Charity forbore to acknowledge that it was a
mistake and that Truth, in the very nature of its eternal essence, could
not say it was good? It is so grave a matter that one wonders Helvetius
did not betray it, as he did that other secret about which the
philosophers had agreed to keep mum, so that Herr Schopenhauer could
write about it as he did about that other. Herr Schopenhauer certainly
had the courage to speak with philosophical asperity of the gentle
sex. It may be because he was never married. And then his mother wrote
novels! I have been surprised that he was not accused of prejudice.

But if all these everyday obstacles were absent there would yet remain
insurmountable reasons why women can never be novel-readers in the sense
that men are. Your wife, for instance, or the impenetrable mystery of
womanhood that you contemplate making your wife some day--can you,
honestly, now, as a self-respecting husband of either de facto or in
futuro, quite agree to the spectacle of that adored lady sitting over
across the hearth from you in the snug room, evening after evening, with
her feet--however small and well-shaped--cocked up on the other end of
the mantel and one of your own big colorado maduros between her teeth!
We men, and particularly novel-readers, are liberal even generous, in
our views; but it is not in human nature to stand that!