“No,” Anne said. “That’s just a sample of her ‘line.’ When she dances near another girl and her partner, she’ll say to the other girl’s partner, ‘Got something _queer_ to tell you,’ or ‘I _heard_ something about you last night,’ or ‘Wait till you _hear_ what I know about _you_,’ or something like that; and, of course, he’ll get rid of the girl he’s with as soon as he can and go to find out. She almost never passes a man at a dance, or on the links, without either calling to him if he’s not near her, or whispering to him if he is. It’s always some absolutely silly little mystery she makes up about him—and almost her whole stock in trade is that she’s heard something about ’em, or thought something curious about ’em, or dreamed about ’em. It’s always something about _them_, of course. Then they follow her around to find out, and she doesn’t tell ’em, so they keep _on_ following her around, and she gets them so excited about themselves that then they get excited about _her_—and she makes ’em think she’s thinking about them mysteriously—and they get so they can’t _see_ anybody but Sallie Ealing! They don’t know what a cheap bait she’s caught ’em with, Mamma;—they don’t even guess she’s _used_ bait! That’s why I don’t feel as if I could ever respect a man again. And the unfairness of it is so _strange_! The rest of us could use those tricks if we were willing to be that cheap and that childish; but we can’t even tell the men that we wouldn’t stoop to do it! We can’t do anything because they’d think we’re jealous of her. What _can_ we do, Mamma?” Mrs. Cromwell sighed and shook her head. “I’m afraid a good many generations of girls have had their Sallie Ealings, dear.” “You mean there isn’t anything we can do?” Anne asked, and she added, with a desolate laugh, “I just said that, myself. But _men_ do things when they feel like this, don’t they, Mamma? Why is it a girl can’t? Why do I have to sit still and see men I’ve respected and looked up to and thought so wise and fine—why do I have to sit still and see them hoodwinked and played upon and carried off their feet by such silly little barefaced tricks, Mamma? And why don’t they see what it is, themselves, Mamma? Any girl or woman—the very stupidest—can see it, Mamma, so why doesn’t the cleverest man? Are men _all_ just _idiots_, Mamma? Are they?” This little tumult of hurried and emotional questions pressed upon the harassed mother for but a single reply. “Yes, dear,” she said. “They are. It’s a truth we have to find out, and the younger we are when we find out, the better for us. We have to learn to forgive them for it and to respect them for the intelligence they show in other ways—but about the Sallie Ealings and what we used to call ‘women’s wiles,’ we have to face the fact that men are—well, yes—just idiots!” “_All_ men, Mamma?” “I’m afraid so!” “And there’s nothing to do about it?”