We can’t afford to turn our women, our Madonnas, our Saint Catherines, our Mona Lisas, our goddesses and angels and fairy princesses, into a sort of man. She made no answer, and for a time he debated some problems with himself. Her husband sat in a chair beside her bed, his head in his hands. Her eyebrows were lifted in expostulation. ‘Don’t lose your temper again. Men do services for the love of women, and the woman who takes must pay. “Home, of course,” she answered. "Very well, Mr. . I’ve seen him, and he doesn’t a bit understand.
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