Lyra:  False, false men!

Astraea:  They come to me.  I am complimented on being the vulnerable spot.

Lyra:  The object desired is usually addressed by suitors, my poor
Astraea!

Astraea:  With the assumption, that as I am feminine I must necessarily be in the folds of the horrible constrictor they call Love, and that I leap to the thoughts of their debasing marriage.

Lyra:  One of them goes to Mr. Homeware.

Astraea:  All are sent to him in turn.  He can dispose of them.

Lyra:  Now that is really masterly fun, my dear; most creditable to you!  Love, marriage, a troop of suitors, and uncle Homeware.  No, it would not have occurred to me, and—­I am considered to have some humour.  Of course, he disposes of them.  He seemed to have a fairly favourable opinion of Mr. Arden.

Astraea:  I do not share it.  He is the least respectful of the sentiments entertained by me.  Pray, spare me the mention of him, as you say of your husband.  He has that pitiful conceit in men, which sets them thinking that a woman must needs be susceptible to the declaration of the mere existence of their passion.  He is past argument.  Impossible for him to conceive a woman’s having a mind above the conditions of her sex.  A woman, according to him, can have no ideal of life, except as a ball to toss in the air and catch in a cup.  Put him aside. . . .  We creatures are doomed to marriage, and if we shun it, we are a kind of cripple.  He is grossly earthy in his view of us.  We are unable to move a step in thought or act unless we submit to have a husband.  That is his reasoning.  Nature!  Nature!  I have to hear of Nature!  We must be above Nature, I tell him, or, we shall be very much below.  He is ranked among our clever young men; and he can be amusing.  So far he passes muster; and he has a pleasant voice.  I dare say he is an uncle Homeware’s good sort of boy.  Girls like him.  Why does he not fix his attention upon one of them; Why upon me?  We waste our time in talking of him . . . .  The secret of it is, that he has no reverence.  The marriage he vaunts is a mere convenient arrangement for two to live together under command of nature.  Reverence for the state of marriage is unknown to him.  How explain my feeling?  I am driven into silence.  Cease to speak of him . . . .  He is the dupe of his eloquence—­his passion, he calls it.  I have only to trust myself to him, and—­I shall be one of the world’s married women!  Words are useless.  How am I to make him see that it is I who respect the state of marriage by refusing; not he by perpetually soliciting.  Once married, married for ever.  Widow is but a term.  When women hold their own against him, as I have done, they will be more esteemed.  I have resisted and conquered.  I am sorry I do not share in the opinion of your favourite.