“What has she ever done for George? I ask you that.” She waited for his answer as if she defied him to name one thing Helen had done to help her husband. “Well, she’s been a good wife to him,” he repeated futilely. “There you go again,” she exclaimed. “I’ve been a good wife to you, too, haven’t I?” “Indeed you have, my dear,” he answered gratefully. “But was I contented with being just that? When we came to this town as poor as church mice and you got the position in the bank, I made up my mind that you should be president of that bank some day, and you are, aren’t you?” “Yes, my dear, and I owe everything to you--” “Not everything, Mr. Cutter,” she interrupted with a sniff; “but I helped you; I made friends for you; I showed off before people to let them know you were prosperous and a coming man. I had some pride.” “You did, my dear. You were game and looked it,” he answered with a watery smile of memory in his eye. “And I bore a son for you.” “You ought not to blame Helen; you can’t--” he began. “Yes, I can,” she interrupted; “if she isn’t to have children, if poor George’s name is to die with him, she might at least help him enjoy his own career. But she doesn’t; she is becalmed. She hasn’t got it in her, I tell you, to do what I have done to show my pride and appreciation of the position you have made for us.” “But, Maggie, you are one woman in ten thousand. You have not only been the best of wives, you have been everything to me a man needs.” This reduced her to proud tears, and ended the scene, he holding one hand, she pressing a scented handkerchief to her eyes with the other. She was really quite happy in a sort of fiercely indignant fashion. I suppose every husband tells his wife some such yarn as this. And he usually gets away with it. He may even believe it for all I know, although there are some millions of other husbands controverting his testimony by the same flattery to their respective wives. We have biographies of great women, even if they are bad ones. But I doubt if there is a single biography to be found of a merely good woman, because for some reason goodness does not distinguish women, and for another reason, while it may make them useful, dependable and absolutely essential to others, it does not make them sufficiently interesting to hold the reader’s attention or the world’s attention. You never heard of one being knighted for virtue. It is not done. You never saw a monument raised to just one woman who was invincibly good and faithful in the discharge of her intimate private duties as a wife or a mother. She must do something publicly, like leading a reform or creating a disturbance.