United States -- Social life and customs -- 20th century -- Fiction; Young women -- Fiction
“Ah, but we’d never live alone, my dear. To be really free you must
observe certain conventions just as you must wear the proper clothes.
Keep your background intact and you may kick your slipper over the moon.
Think of all the rascality men get away with so long as they keep within
the law. Same idea. We’ll have to find a respectable companion for
you——”
“No, you will not! I love living alone and doing just as I please. And
no companion would stay with me a week, I’ll tell you.”
“Oh, she’d have a sweet time of it, no doubt of that. But, Gita,
remember you’re coming out next winter——”
“I’ll settle that right here. If I have to choose between your stupid
old Society and my complete independence I won’t come out. I could get a
lot more out of New York, anyhow, by myself, and if I want to know
people Elsie will take me among the sophisticates. You know perfectly
well I’d be a failure in Society, anyhow.”
Polly was dismayed. She had watched the evolution of Gita with
satisfaction and mirth, and was convinced that when she had shed the
last of her bristles she would be a regular girl; not quite like anyone
else, perhaps, but amenable. But this was taking freedom altogether too
seriously. She gathered her forces and she was a hardy antagonist.
“Know what will happen?” she demanded, seating herself and lighting a
cigarette. “The men of that sophisticate crowd will feel they can insult
you with impunity. Pretty mixed crowd; not all gentlemen, not by a long
sight. I’ve sneaked out and gone to several of their parties with
Eustace. They don’t drink any more than we do, for they couldn’t, but
our boys, rotten as they are, know how to treat us—have the same
code—and some of those men, let me tell you, do not; when they’re lit,
at all events. And, as you don’t write, or anything of that sort, they’d
assume you were a blasée rich girl out for larks. You’re a beauty in
your own fierce way, and they’d paw you till you were sick. Neither
Eustace nor Elsie could protect you——”
“Shut up! Shut up!” Gita stamped her foot. Her black brows were an
unbroken line and her eyes shooting sparks. “Don’t you suppose I know
how to take care of myself? I’ve had enough experience, God knows. I’m
not afraid of sophisticates; they’re probably babies beside European
men, and if they were as bad as you make them out, which they probably
are not, I’d keep them in their place. I haven’t been to any of your
parties, but I’ve met men at your house and I wouldn’t put anything past
them——”
“Right, right, my dear. But you’re not their sort—not yet at all
events. Men have to be met half-way, these days. They won’t bother
you——”
“You just said those other men were not my sort either.”
“More so, for they have brains. They’d go crazy over you because you
suggest sex, all right, even if you haven’t any, and sex is their main
preoccupation. You’ll be safe with us, my dear—and nowhere else.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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