The real new woman is a creature quite different. She is one whom you
would wish to know. She is one whom you would invite to your most
select dinners. You would be better men if you had more friends like
her, and broader-minded women if you dropped a few of those who hand
you doughnut recipes over the back fence, and who entertain you with
the history of the baby's measles, and how they are managing to meet
the payments on their little house. I am not unsympathetic, either,
with the measles or the payments, but I prefer the subjects of
conversation which a new woman selects. There is more ozone in them.
The new woman whom I mean is silk-lined. She is nearly always pretty.
She is always clever. She is always a lady, and she is always good.
Perhaps, to the cynical, that combination sounds as if she might not
be interesting; but she is. Of course not always. One may have all
those gifts, and yet not know how to make use of them for other
people's benefit. The gift of being interesting is a distinct one by
itself. But the new woman, having fresh and outside interests, is
generally able to talk of them delightfully.
The new woman is new only in the sense that she has opened her eyes
and has begun to see the value of the simple, common, everyday truths
which lie nearest to her.
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