“For men have reason, women rhyme A man scores always, all the time.” This couplet sprang into her mind from nowhere, and immediately begot an endless series of similar couplets that she began to compose and address to Capes. They came teeming distressfully through her aching brain: “A man can kick, his skirts don’t tear; A man scores always, everywhere. “His dress for no man lays a snare; A man scores always, everywhere. For hats that fail and hats that flare; Toppers their universal wear; A man scores always, everywhere. “Men’s waists are neither here nor there; A man scores always, everywhere. “A man can manage without hair; A man scores always, everywhere. “There are no males at men to stare; A man scores always, everywhere. “And children must we women bear-- “Oh, damn!” she cried, as the hundred-and-first couplet or so presented itself in her unwilling brain. For a time she worried about that compulsory bath and cutaneous diseases. Then she fell into a fever of remorse for the habit of bad language she had acquired. “A man can smoke, a man can swear; A man scores always, everywhere.” She rolled over on her face, and stuffed her fingers in her ears to shut out the rhythm from her mind. She lay still for a long time, and her mind resumed at a more tolerable pace. She found herself talking to Capes in an undertone of rational admission. “There is something to be said for the lady-like theory after all,” she admitted. “Women ought to be gentle and submissive persons, strong only in virtue and in resistance to evil compulsion. My dear--I can call you that here, anyhow--I know that. The Victorians over-did it a little, I admit. Their idea of maidenly innocence was just a blank white--the sort of flat white that doesn’t shine. But that doesn’t alter the fact that there IS innocence. And I’ve read, and thought, and guessed, and looked--until MY innocence--it’s smirched. “Smirched!... “You see, dear, one IS passionately anxious for something--what is it? One wants to be CLEAN. You want me to be clean. You would want me to be clean, if you gave me a thought, that is.... “I wonder if you give me a thought.... “I’m not a good woman. I don’t mean I’m not a good woman--I mean that I’m not a GOOD woman. My poor brain is so mixed, dear, I hardly know what I am saying. I mean I’m not a good specimen of a woman. I’ve got a streak of male. Things happen to women--proper women--and all they have to do is to take them well. They’ve just got to keep white. But I’m always trying to make things happen. And I get myself dirty... “It’s all dirt that washes off, dear, but it’s dirt. “The white unaggressive woman who corrects and nurses and serves, and is worshipped and betrayed--the martyr-queen of men, the white mother.... You can’t do that sort of thing unless you do it over religion, and there’s no religion in me--of that sort--worth a rap.