Being a real woman, she likes to be liked.  She wishes to please men.  We all do.  But what kind of men are we to please?  Untrained men under thirty-five?  Owing to the horrible prevalence of these men, some girls become neither fish nor flesh nor good red herring.  They see their silly, pink-cheeked sisters followed and admired.  They know either how shallow these girls are or how cleverly hypocritical.  Clever girls are also human.  They love to go about and wear pretty clothes, and dance, and be admired quite as much as anybody.

The result is that they adopt the only course left to them, and, bringing themselves down to the level of the men, feign a frivolity and a levity which occasionally call forth from a thinking man a criticism which is, in a sense, totally undeserved.  What will not the untrained man under thirty-five have to answer for on the Day of Judgment!

It is of no use to argue about this state of things.  Facts are facts.  Men make no secret of the kind of women they want us to be.  We get preached at from pulpits and lectured at from platforms and written about by “The Saunterer” and “The Man About Town” and “The One Who Knows It All,” telling us how to be womanly, how to look to please men, how to behave to please men, and how to save our souls to please men, until, if we were not a sweet, amiable set, we would rebel as a sex and declare that we thought we were lovely just the way we were, and that we were not going to change for anybody.

You lords of creation ought to be very complaisant, or else very much ashamed of yourselves.  You send in an order:  “The kind of girl that I like is a Methodist without bangs.”  And some nice girl begins to look up Methodist tenets and buys invisible hairpins and side combs.  Or you say, “Give me an athletic girl.”  And, presto! some girl who would much rather read buys a wheel, and learns golf, and lets out the waists to her gowns, and revels in tan and freckles.  We do what you men want us to.  And, then, when you complain about our lack of brains, that we cannot discuss current events, and that you have to give us society small-talk, I feel like saying:  “Well, whose fault is it?  If you demand brains, we will cultivate them.  If you want good looks, we will try to scare up some.  If you want nobility, we will let you know how much we have concealed about us.”

Often it is not that we are not secretly much more of women, and better and cleverer women, than you think us.  But there is no call for such wares, so we lay character and brain on the shelves to mildew, and fill the show-windows with confectionery and illusion.  We supply the demand.  We always have supplied it, and we always will.