“She can work,” replied Carley, bluntly.

“Oh yes, she can, but she doesn’t,” went on Eleanor.  “You don’t work.  I never did.  We both hated the idea.  You’re calling spades spades, Carley, but you seem to be riding a morbid, impractical thesis.  Well, our young American girl or bride goes in for being rushed or she goes in for fads, the ultra stuff you mentioned.  New York City gets all the great artists, lecturers, and surely the great fakirs.  The New York women support them.  The men laugh, but they furnish the money.  They take the women to the theaters, but they cut out the reception to a Polish princess, a lecture by an Indian magician and mystic, or a benefit luncheon for a Home for Friendless Cats.  The truth is most of our young girls or brides have a wonderful enthusiasm worthy of a better cause.  What is to become of their surplus energy, the bottled-lightning spirit so characteristic of modern girls?  Where is the outlet for intense feelings?  What use can they make of education or of gifts?  They just can’t, that’s all.  I’m not taking into consideration the new-woman species, the faddist or the reformer.  I mean normal girls like you and me.  Just think, Carley.  A girl’s every wish, every need, is almost instantly satisfied without the slightest effort on her part to obtain it.  No struggle, let alone work!  If women crave to achieve something outside of the arts, you know, something universal and helpful which will make men acknowledge her worth, if not the equality, where is the opportunity?”

“Opportunities should be made,” replied Carley.

“There are a million sides to this question of the modern young woman—­the fin-de-siecle girl.  I’m for her!”

“How about the extreme of style in dress for this remarkably-to-be-pitied American girl you champion so eloquently?” queried Carley, sarcastically.

“Immoral!” exclaimed Eleanor with frank disgust.

“You admit it?”

“To my shame, I do.”

“Why do women wear extreme clothes?  Why do you and I wear open-work silk stockings, skirts to our knees, gowns without sleeves or bodices?”

“We’re slaves to fashion,” replied Eleanor, “That’s the popular excuse.”

“Bah!” exclaimed Carley.

Eleanor laughed in spite of being half nettled.  “Are you going to stop wearing what all the other women wear—­and be looked at askance?  Are you going to be dowdy and frumpy and old-fashioned?”

“No.  But I’ll never wear anything again that can be called immoral.  I want to be able to say why I wear a dress.  You haven’t answered my question yet.  Why do you wear what you frankly admit is disgusting?”

“I don’t know, Carley,” replied Eleanor, helplessly.  “How you harp on things!  We must dress to make other women jealous and to attract men.  To be a sensation!  Perhaps the word ‘immoral’ is not what I mean.  A woman will be shocking in her obsession to attract, but hardly more than that, if she knows it.”