“I am not saying it is the case among intelligent thinkers,” explained the Philosopher, “but in popular literature the convention still lingers.  To woman’s face no man cares to protest against it; and woman, to her harm, has come to accept it as a truism.  ’What are little girls made of?  Sugar and spice and all that’s nice.’  In more or less varied form the idea has entered into her blood, shutting out from her hope of improvement.  The girl is discouraged from asking herself the occasionally needful question:  Am I on the way to becoming a sound, useful member of society?  Or am I in danger of degenerating into a vain, selfish, lazy piece of good-for-nothing rubbish?  She is quite content so long as she can detect in herself no tendency to male vices, forgetful that there are also feminine vices.  Woman is the spoilt child of the age.  No one tells her of her faults.  The World with its thousand voices flatters her.  Sulks, bad temper, and pig-headed obstinacy are translated as ‘pretty Fanny’s wilful ways.’  Cowardice, contemptible in man or woman, she is encouraged to cultivate as a charm.  Incompetence to pack her own bag or find her own way across a square and round a corner is deemed an attraction.  Abnormal ignorance and dense stupidity entitle her to pose as the poetical ideal.  If she give a penny to a street beggar, selecting generally the fraud, or kiss a puppy’s nose, we exhaust the language of eulogy, proclaiming her a saint.  The marvel to me is that, in spite of the folly upon which they are fed, so many of them grow to be sensible women.”

“Myself,” remarked the Minor Poet, “I find much comfort in the conviction that talk, as talk, is responsible for much less good and much less harm in the world than we who talk are apt to imagine.  Words to grow and bear fruit must fall upon the earth of fact.”

“But you hold it right to fight against folly?” demanded the Philosopher.

“Heavens, yes!” cried the Minor Poet.  “That is how one knows it is Folly—­if we can kill it.  Against the Truth our arrows rattle harmlessly.”

CHAPTER VI

“But what is her reason?” demanded the Old Maid.

“Reason!  I don’t believe any of them have any reason.”  The Woman of the World showed sign of being short of temper, a condition of affairs startlingly unusual to her.  “Says she hasn’t enough work to do.”

“She must be an extraordinary woman,” commented the Old Maid.

“The trouble I have put myself to in order to keep that woman, just because George likes her savouries, no one would believe,” continued indignantly the Woman of the World.  “We have had a dinner party regularly once a week for the last six months, entirely for her benefit.  Now she wants me to give two.  I won’t do it!”

“If I could be of any service?” offered the Minor Poet.  “My digestion is not what it once was, but I could make up in quality—­a recherche little banquet twice a week, say on Wednesdays and Saturdays, I would make a point of eating with you.  If you think that would content her!”