hers wait upon her, and do for her the things she should do for
herself. Her room is a jumble of disorder, a fantasy of dirty clothes, a
sequinarium of unmentionables--that is, if the care of it is left to
herself. The one gleam of hope for her lies in the fact that out of
shame she will allow no visitor to enter the apartment if she can help
it. Concrete selfishness is her chief mark. She avoids responsibility;
sidesteps every duty that calls for honest effort; is secretive,
untruthful, indolent, evasive and dishonest.

"What are you eating?" asks Nora Hebler's husband as she enters the
room, not expecting to see him.

"Nothing," is the answer, and she hides the box of bonbons behind her,
and presently backs out of the room.

I think Mr. Hebler had no business to ask her what she was eating: no
man should ask any woman such a question--and really it was no
difference anyway. But Nora is always on the defensive, and fabricates
when it is necessary--and when it isn't, just through habit. She will
hide a letter written by her grandmother, as quickly and deftly as if it
were a missive from a guilty lover. The habit of her life is one of
suspicion; for, being inwardly guilty herself, she suspects everybody,
although it is quite likely that crime with her has never broken through
thought into deed. Nora rifles her husband's pockets, reads his
notebook, examines his letters, and when he goes on a trip she spends
the day checking up his desk, for her soul delights in duplicate keys.

At times she lets drop hints of knowledge concerning little nothings
that are none of hers, just to mystify folks. She does strange, annoying
things, simply to see what others will do.

In degree, Nora's husband fixed the vice of finesse in her nature, for
even a "good" woman accused parries by the use of trickery and wins her
point by the artistry of the bagnio. Women and men are never really far
apart anyway, and women are what men have made them.

We are all just getting rid of our shackles: listen closely anywhere,
even among honest and intellectual people, if such there be, and you can
detect the rattle of chains.

The Disagreeable Girl's mind and soul have not kept pace with her body.
Yesterday she was a slave, sold in Circassian mart, and freedom to her
is so new and strange that she does not know what to do with it.

The tragedy she works, according to George Bernard Shaw, is through the
fact that very often good men, blinded by th