I am big--taller than Lilian, and much broader. I have great limbs--I cannot help it if they are like a man’s, though mamma is always throwing it in my teeth. I like all sorts of exercise. The only form of exercise they really like is dancing. They dance exquisitely. My dancing is like an elephant’s--I am always having to apologise for getting on my partner’s toes. I should like to spend the whole of my life in the open air. I sometimes fancy that mamma thinks there is something improper in being out-of-doors. She is always exclaiming against what she calls masculine women--by which she means girls who golf, and row, and ride bicycles, and all that sort of thing. I should like to go in for everything athletic, but they won’t let me. They keep me fastened in a tight pair of corsets, which sometimes make me feel as if I were being held in a vice. I am in a dreadful condition--soft as putty, instead of hard as nails. I cannot walk a quarter of a mile, at anything like a decent pace, without perspiring. Then they laugh at me. If they would let me go in for some real hard work, like lots of other girls do, I would soon show them. By nature I am a sort of female Hercules; it is a shame that they insist on making me a jelly-fish. I want to have plenty of room inside my clothes. I want my hair to do itself; it would not look so bad with just a touch or two, even if it ran a trifle wild. I want my boots and shoes to humour my feet, I do not want my feet to have to humour them; I am not ashamed of their being large. I do not want to be screwed into an imitation Paris costume, which is too tight everywhere, and bursts when I lift my arms. I know I look a gawk in it, and I always shall. If they would let me be natural--my own self--I do believe I should pass muster. Girls of my build are not meant to be made up in imitation of Dresden china, or Watteau drawings.