"Eleanor, I'm no better than you," said Carley, with disdain. "I'm as

useless and idle. But I'm beginning to see myself--and you--and all this

rotten crowd of ours. We're no good. But you're married, Eleanor. You're

settled in life. You ought to do something. I'm single and at loose

ends. Oh, I'm in revolt!... Think, Eleanor, just think. Your husband

works hard to keep you in this expensive apartment. You have a car.

He dresses you in silks and satins. You wear diamonds. You eat your

breakfast in bed. You loll around in a pink dressing gown all morning.

You dress for lunch or tea. You ride or golf or worse than waste your

time on some lounge lizard, dancing till time to come home to dress

for dinner. You let other men make love to you. Oh, don't get sore. You

do.... And so goes the round of your life. What good on earth are you,

anyhow? You're just a--a gratification to the senses of your husband.

And at that you don't see much of him."

"Carley, how you rave!" exclaimed her friend. "What has gotten into

you lately? Why, everybody tells me you're--you're queer! The way you

insulted Morrison--how unlike you, Carley!"

"I'm glad I found the nerve to do it. What do you think, Eleanor?"

"Oh, I despise him. But you can't say the things you feel."

"You'd be bigger and truer if you did. Some day I'll break out and flay

you and your friends alive."

"But, Carley, you're my friend and you're just exactly like we are. Or

you were, quite recently."

"Of course, I'm your friend. I've always loved you, Eleanor," went on

Carley, earnestly. "I'm as deep in this--this damned stagnant muck as

you, or anyone. But I'm no longer blind. There's something terribly

wrong with us women, and it's not what Morrison hinted."

"Carley, the only thing wrong with you is that you jilted poor

Glenn--and are breaking your heart over him still."

"Don't--don't!" cried Carley, shrinking. "God knows that is true. But

there's more wrong with me than a blighted love affair."

"Yes, you mean the modern feminine unrest?"

"Eleanor, I positively hate that phrase 'modern feminine unrest!' It

smacks of ultra--ultra--Oh! I don't know what. That phrase ought to be

translated by a Western acquaintance of mine--one Haze Ruff. I'd not

like to hurt your sensitive feelings with what he'd say. But this unrest

means speed-mad, excitement-mad, fad-mad, dress-mad, or I should say

undress-mad, culture-mad, and Heaven only knows what else. The women of

our set are idle, luxurious, selfish, pleasure-craving, lazy, useless,

work-and-children shirking, absolutely no good."




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