nd sportswoman, is the pretty girl in the
picture. The only thing I have to say against her is that she makes one
dissatisfied with the girl out of the picture--the girl who mistakes a
punt for a teetotum, so that you land feeling as if you had had a day
in the Bay of Biscay; and who, every now and again, stuns you with the
thick end of the pole: the girl who does not skate with her hands in her
muff; but who, throwing them up to heaven, says, "I'm going," and who
goes, taking care that you go with her: the girl who, as you brush her
down, and try to comfort her, explains to you indignantly that the horse
took the corner too sharply and never noticed the mile-stone; the girl
whose hair sea water does NOT improve.

There can be no doubt about it: that is where they keep the good woman
of Fiction, where they keep the pretty girl of Art.

Does it not occur to you, Messieurs les Auteurs, that you are sadly
disturbing us? These women that are a combination of Venus, St. Cecilia,
and Elizabeth Fry! you paint them for us in your glowing pages: it is
not kind of you, knowing, as you must, the women we have to put up with.

Would we not be happier, we men and women, were we to idealize one
another less? My dear young lady, you have nothing whatever to complain
to Fate about, I assure you. Unclasp those pretty hands of yours, and
come away from the darkening window. Jack is as good a fellow as you
deserve; don't yearn so much. Sir Galahad, my dear--Sir Galahad rides
and fights in the land that lies beyond the sunset, far enough away
from this noisy little earth where you and I spend much of our time
tittle-tattling, flirting, wearing fine clothes, and going to shows. And
besides, you must remember, Sir Galahad was a bachelor: as an idealist
he was wise. Your Jack is by no means a bad sort of knight, as knights
go nowadays in this un-idyllic world. There is much solid honesty about
him, and he does not pose. He is not exceptional, I grant you; but, my
dear, have you ever tried the exceptional man? Yes, he is very nice in
a drawing-room, and it is interesting to read about him in the Society
papers: you will find most of his good qualities there: take my advice,
don't look into him too closely. You be content with Jack, and thank
heaven he is no worse. We are not saints, we men--none of us, and our
beautiful thoughts, I fear, we write in poetry not action. The White
Knight, my dear young lady, with his pure soul, his heroic heart,