’ ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Miss Froxfield frostily. Tell me. So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work. Then she sat watching the play, sometimes offering a helpful suggestion, sometimes letting her attention wander to the smoothly shining arms she had folded across her knees just below the edge of the table. He contrasted the lot of women in general with the lot of men, presented men as patient, self-immolating martyrs, and women as the pampered favorites of Nature.
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