eedom from
bother.

A brutal suggestion.

It sounds brutal, but perhaps woman was not intended to live free from
all bothers. Perhaps even the higher life--the skirt-dancing and the
poker work--has its bothers. Perhaps woman was intended to take her
share of the world's work--of the world's bothers.

CHAPTER XII

Why I hate Heroes.

When I was younger, reading the popular novel used to make me sad. I
find it vexes others also. I was talking to a bright young girl upon the
subject not so very long ago.

"I just hate the girl in the novel," she confessed. "She makes me feel
real bad. If I don't think of her I feel pleased with myself, and good;
but when I read about her--well, I'm crazy. I would not mind her being
smart, sometimes. We can all of us say the right thing, now and then.
This girl says them straight away, all the time. She don't have to dig
for them even; they come crowding out of her. There never happens a time
when she stands there feeling like a fool and knowing that she looks it.
As for her hair: 'pon my word, there are days when I believe it is a wig.
I'd like to get behind her and give it just one pull. It curls of its
own accord. She don't seem to have any trouble with it. Look at this
mop of mine. I've been working at it for three-quarters of an hour this
morning; and now I would not laugh, not if you were to tell me the
funniest thing, you'd ever heard, for fear it would come down again. As
for her clothes, they make me tired. She don't possess a frock that does
not fit her to perfection; she doesn't have to think about them. You
would imagine she went into the garden and picked them off a tree. She
just slips it on and comes down, and then--my stars! All the other women
in the room may just as well go to bed and get a good night's rest for
all the chance they've got. It isn't that she's beautiful. From what
they tell you about her, you might fancy her a freak. Looks don't appear
to matter to her; she gets there anyhow. I tell you she just makes me
boil."

Allowing for the difference between the masculine and feminine outlook,
this is precisely how I used to feel when reading of the hero. He was
not always good; sometimes he hit the villain harder than he had
intended, and then he was sorry--when it was too late, blamed himself
severely, and subscribed towards the wreath. Like the rest of us, he
made mistakes; occasionally married the wrong girl. But