What shall be said of this beautiful woman, for whom men sigh as for the unattainable? That she is lovely as the morning? All New York knows it. That her walk is like a lily's swaying in the wind, her voice is the sweetest music that ever ravished ear, her hair a lure for sunbeams? It is the commonplace of conversation at every smart house. For this lovely woman of science is no ascetic. She moves by right of beauty and high purpose, in the best society. This farmer's daughter walks among the proudest in the land, and none there is to compare with her. Like the Admirable Crichton, no art is to her unknown, no accomplishment by her neglected. Her eager soul, not satisfied with dominion over the realm of beauty and of love, would have all knowledge for its sphere. Amusing, isn't it?--to one who is not the heroine of the tale! The tragedy of Darmstetter revived, my scientific attainments--but oh, the worst--the worst of all--is the wicked lie that I am in the "best society." Why, the very day before, we had been "at home," Mrs. Whitney and I, and hardly a soul that counts was here. Mrs. Van Dam had a convenient headache; I haven't seen her since Peggy's wedding. If she had not been so very civil--she and Mrs. Henry--I might think that even then she suspected that Strathay-- There were a few correct, vapid young men in gray trousers and long frock coats among our guests that day, but none worth serious attention. And the women! One creature tucked tracks under the tea cloth, whereat Mrs. Whitney's pinched nose was elevated. Ethel saw the action--in spite of her mother and sister, the poor girl clings to me; I suppose it's natural that _she_ should love beauty--and hopping round the table at the first chance, she pulled out one, chuckling mightily. "'Favour is deceitful and beauty is vain,'" she quoted in undertone; "oh, Nelly, take your share of the unco guid and the riders of hobby horses, and be thankful it's no larger." Ethel doesn't know how great it is. There was the woman who insists on gloating over me as a proof of the superiority of her sex; the woman who had written a book, the woman who would talk about Karma, and the woman--there was more than one--who would talk about the Earl. After they had gone, Mrs. Whitney's disgust was as plain as her horror of their appetite for cake and other creature comforts. But the storm broke in earnest a day or two later, after the last reception we shall ever hold together. I can't describe it. I don't understand it. Women are fast leaving the city; it was too late for an "evening." But that made no difference; I do not deceive myself. I am pressing with my shoulders against a mountain barrier--the prejudice of women--and it never, never yields. Active opposition I could fight; but the tactics are now to ignore me. In response to cards, I get "regrets," or women simply stay away.