“The American man, too busy to be bothered, turns the American woman loose--gives her absolute freedom. And what is she? A child in education, a child in experience, a child in taste. He turns her loose, bids her do as she likes--and, up to the limit of his ability gives her all the money she wants. He prefers her a child. Her childishness rests his tired brain. And he doesn’t mind if she’s a little mischievous--that makes her more amusing.” “You are married--have children,” said I, too serious to bother about tact. “How is it with you?” He laughed cynically. “Don’t speak of my family,” said he. “I tried the other way. But I’ve given up--several years ago. What can _one_ do in a crazy crowd?” “Not much,” confessed I, deeply depressed. “The women stampede each other,” he went on. “Besides, no American woman--none that I know--has been brought up with education enough to enable her to make a life for herself, even when the man tries to help her. To like an occupation, to do anything at it, you’ve got to understand it. Being a husband and father is an occupation, the most important one in the world for a man. Being a wife and mother is an occupation--the most important one in the world for a woman. Are American men and women brought up to those occupations--trained in them--prepared for them? The most they know is a smatter at the pastime of lover and mistress--and they’re none too adept at that.” “I believe,” said I, “that in my whole life I’ve never learned so much in so short a time.” “It’ll do you no good to have learned,” rejoined Armitage. “It will only make you sad or bitter, according to your mood. Or, perhaps some day you may reach my plane of indifference--and be amused.” “Nothing is hopeless,” said I. “The American woman is hopeless,” said he. “Her vanity is triple-plated, copper-riveted. She’s hopeless so long as the American man will give her the money to buy flattery at home and abroad; for, so long as you can buy flattery, you never find out the truth about yourself. And the American man will give her the money as long as he can, because it buys him peace and freedom. He doesn’t want to be bothered with the American woman--except when he’s in a certain mood that doesn’t last long.” “There are exceptions,” said I--not clear as to what I meant. “Yes--there are exceptions,” said he. “There are American men who spend time with the American woman. And what does she do to them? Look at the poor asses!--neglecting their business, letting their minds go to seed. They don’t make her wise. She makes them foolish--as foolish as herself--and her children.” You may perhaps imagine into what a state this talk of Armitage’s threw me. He was talking generalities. But every word he spoke went straight home to me. He had torn the coverings from my inmost family life, had exposed its soul, naked and ugly, to my fascinated gaze.