I find myself in my diary siding strongly with women against men in anything that has to do with emotional affairs, although I like men better than women. My tendency is always to blame the man. This is partly because of the hideous wrong that was done me by my husband and partly because I like to believe that, however blame-worthy women are in the sex struggle and, whatever _faiblesses_ they may be guilty of, the fundamental cause of it all must be found in centuries of men's wickedness and oppression. I have written about this with much feeling. In one place I say: "Sometimes I feel as if there were a conspiracy of men--all kinds of men, including the most serious and respectable--against the virtue of attractive women. What a downfall of masculine reputations there would be if women should tell a little of what they know about men! Only a little! But women are silent in the main--through loyalty or through fear." And again: "What happens to an attractive woman who is forced to earn her own living? In the business world? In the artistic world? Anywhere? I do not say that men are a pack of wolves, but--I had such a heartbreaking experience, especially in my brief musical career. I might have had a small part in grand opera at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York City, so one particular musical wolf assured me, if I would show a little sympathy with his desire to assist me in some of the roles--occasional private rehearsals, and so on. Oh, the beast!... He gave the part to another girl (her voice did not compare with mine) who was less particular, and she made her debut the next season. I went to work at Wanamaker's store!" And still men pursued me. I find this entry: "Roberta took me to dinner yesterday at the Lafayette with her friend Mr. G----, a man of sixty, red-faced, fat and prosperous, the breezy Westerner type. He is giving a grand party at Sherry's and wants me to come. I said I was afraid I couldn't, my real reason being that I have no dress that is nice enough. He said nothing at the time, but kept his eyes on me, and this evening, when I got home, there was a perfectly stunning dinner gown--it must have cost $250.--with a note from Mr. G---- begging me to accept it as I would a flower, since it meant absolutely nothing to him. "How I longed to keep that gown! I think I should have kept it if Seraphine had not happened in. "'Isn't this lovely?' I said, holding it up. 'Do you think I can accept it?' Then I told her what Mr. G---- had said. "She looked at me out of her kind, wise eyes. "'Do you like him?' "'Well--rather.' "'Is he married or unmarried?' "'I think he's married.' "'Is he the man who gave Roberta her sables?' "'Y-yes,' I admitted. "She looked at me again. "'I can't decide for you, Pen; you must settle it with your own conscience; but I am sure of one thing, that, if you accept this dress, you will pay for it, and probably pay much more than it is worth.'