They sell only their talents, not their bodies; they are not girls of the street. Were I a painter of subject pictures, I would exhaust all my skill in proportion
and perspective and atmosphere upon the august seat of empire, I would present
it gray and dignified and immense and respectable beyond any mere verbal
description, and then, in vivid black and very small, I would put in those
valiantly impertinent vans, squatting at the base of its altitudes and pouring out a
swift, straggling rush of ominous little black objects, minute figures of
determined women at war with the universe. Confidence in
himself would strengthen him. Women to me are something so serene, so
fine, so feminine, and politics are so dusty, so sordid, so wearisome and
quarrelsome. It’s odd how
little I know of him, and of how he feels and what he feels. .
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