He not only made me feel ill, but he made me feel evil. I felt just as one does when in the grip of a bilious attack—what is it all about?—why not kill me at once without putting me through such nauseating torments? “I am a college woman,” I told him, feeling weak from nausea. The next instant resentment flared up, and taking the bit in my teeth I lied without shame. “I’m not only a college graduate, but I have four honorary degrees.” “Four degrees!” he cried, staring at me goggle-eyed. “Why, why! What you work here for?—’mong these people?” “For one reason, because I’m not a jinnyass,” I snapped back at him. “For another, I’d sweep the streets, be glad to sweep them, for the sake of helping my country win this war.” Then I stood and glared at him, and I think I clinched my fists. “God help a college that turns out such male creatures as you.” Turning my back on him I stalked over to a window and stood staring at the front of the City Hall. I was not grieving for the lie told when claiming four degrees. But I did regret, rebelliously regret, that it was not within my power to form all draft-evaders in one company, force them to the front, and leave them for the Germans to finish. I questioned, and I still question, the right of any person, man or woman, to live in a country for which he or she is unwilling to fight. I felt and I still feel that if they had any sense of honor in their puny souls, they would get out and found a country of their own—a country of draft-evaders! As contemptible as these persons seemed to me there was another class for which I had an even greater abomination—a class, as I now see conditions, that not only threatens the life of our country but of what we call Christian civilization. That class against which the most beloved of our Presidents never ceased to thunder—the intentionally childless married woman. There was never a day that we, handling the papers of draft-evaders, did not see and recognize her as she stalked, marched, waddled, or blew in on us—the contemptuous, eyebrow-lifting type, the I-know-my-rights-and-I’ll-have-’em type, the life-is-so-hard type, and the airy-fairy-Lillian type. They all came, singly, in couples, and occasionally in trios, all on the same business—“to see about my husband’s case.” Well do I remember the first of this class that fell to my lot. She blew in like a slender, perfectly equipped racing-sloop, with one tall billowy sail. In spite of her slenderness there was a suggestion of Cleopatra—her slow smile, her slumberous dark eyes, which, when you crossed the wishes of their owner, became pin-points of amber flame behind narrow slits.