“No,” after a moment’s pause. “Men do not find thoughtful women interesting. I learned that long ago. I went to a mixed high school, and when we young folks went on picnics or sleigh-rides, it was always the poorest scholar in the class who had the smallest waist and wore the most bracelets, a good-natured little society girl, who received the most attention from the young men. But they were all callow boys, and I did not think or care much about them. I knew a few men of the finest sort who showed me what men could be, and I did not think then, what I am coming to believe now, that many of the real gentlemen who mean to be chivalrous, and who imagine that they give the highest honor to women, actually admire the Howells-farce-type of woman above every other,—that is to say, a pretty, prattling, conscientious, irrational little goose.” “I don’t know anything about Howells’s women,” said I, rather surprised at this outburst; “and I didn’t suppose you ever condescended to anything less than Hawthorne or George Eliot.” “Oh yes, I always read everything of Howells’s, though I abominate his women. But he is so inimitably droll and bright, and then the local Boston flavor of his stories is rather fascinating to a Bostonian, you know.” “Very likely he does not admire his women himself; he may simply wish to show up that type,” I suggested. “Yes, and a pretty common type I am finding it to be after all, though I once used to scorn the idea,” said Mildred, despondingly. Then she added, as she nervously twirled the little silver Maltese cross, the badge of the King’s Daughters, which she always wore, “I suppose I have known as little and cared as little about men as any girl who ever lived. But I have lived too much like a nun,” she sighed; “this new life of these past few weeks has awakened me; I feel that I have missed something. “I wish”— “Well, dear, what do you wish?” I asked, as she hesitated. “I wish,” said she decidedly, “that I could meet some thoroughly fine men with brains and heart who liked me for myself, who liked what was best in me. I honestly confess it is pleasant to be liked and sought after, pleasanter than I used to think. I can see now how easy it is to get one’s head turned.” Then, after a little pause: “But in society we can never be sure what the attraction is. Everything, vulgarity, ignorance, immorality,—everything is pardonable with wealth.” “Hush, dear, you are getting desperate,” I said. “There are, no doubt, many grades of New York society where all that may be pardoned on the score of wealth; but you have not seen much of that, so far, and we have met many really fine, cultivated people who have traveled and studied and have real character. You spoke enthusiastically of the talk about Art which you had the other night over in the bay window with Professor Stuart and that English artist with all the letters after his name.”