"
As Edith and her mother quietly read, and ate grapes, and lolled in a
delightfully feminine way, voices were heard,--Mae's and Norman's. They
were in the middle of a conversation. "Yes," Mae was saying, "you
do away with individuality altogether nowadays, with your dreadful
classifications. It is all the same from daffodils up to women."
"How do we classify women, pray?"
"In the mind of man," began Mae, as if she were reading, "there are
three classes of women; the giddy butterflies, the busy bees, and the
woman's righters. The first are pretty and silly; the second, plain
and useful; the third, mannish and odious. The first wear long trailing
dresses and smile at you while waltzing, the second wear aprons and give
you apple-dumplings, and the third want your manly prerogatives, your
dress-coat, your money, and your vote. Flirt with the giddy butterflies,
your first love was one. First loves always are. Marry the busy bee.
Your mother was a busy bee. Mothers always are. And keep on the other
side of the street from the woman's righter as long as you can.
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