ded to; and it is not
for love--and the amiable if weak pleasure of attracting the notice of
the beloved--it is just for the vanity of being a little somebody for
the moment, and of playing off the small regality involved in the
procedure. She would not return the attention.

Unlike the Eastern women, who wait on their lords, hand and foot, and
who place their highest honor in their lowliest service, the spoilt
woman of Western life knows nothing of the natural grace of womanly
serving for love, for grace, or for gratitude. This kind of thing is
peculiarly strong among the _demi-monde_ of the higher class, and among
women who are not of the _demi-monde_ by station, but by nature. The
respect they cannot command by their virtues they demand in the
simulation of manner; and perhaps no women are more tenacious of the
outward forms of deference than those who have lost their claim to the
vital reality.

It is very striking to see the difference between the women of this
type, the _petites maitresses_ who require the utmost attention and
almost servility from man, and the noble dignity of service which the
pure woman can afford to give--which she finds, indeed, that it belongs
to the very purity and nobleness of her womanhood to give. It is the old
story of the ill-assured position which is afraid of its own weakness,
and the security which can afford to descend--the rule holding good for
other things besides mere social place.

Another characteristic of the spoilt woman is the changeableness and
excitability of her temper. All suavity and gentleness and delightful
gaiety and perfect manners when everything goes right, she startles you
by her outburst of petulance when the first cross comes. If no man is a
hero to his valet, neither is a spoilt woman a heroine to her maid; and
the lady who has just been the charm of the drawing-room, upstairs in
her boudoir makes her maid go through spiritual exercises to which
walking on burning ploughshares is the only fit analogy. A length of
lace unstarched, a ribbon unsewed, a flower set awry, anything that
crumples only one of the myriad rose-leaves on which she lies, and the
spoilt woman raves as much as if each particular leaf had become
suddenly beset with thorns.

If a dove was to be transformed to a hawk the change would not be more
complete, more startling, than that which occurs when the spoilt woman
of well-bred company manners puts off her mask to her maid, and shows
her