reated me with neglect; but, as I grew older and reflected on
everything, putting aside coquetry, and observing things without taking
any part in them myself, I perceived this much--that if men are not
always polite, women are always indescribably rude.

We imagine that we should be permitted to do anything, my darling, and at
the same time we consider that we have a right to the utmost respect, and
in the most flagrant manner we commit actions devoid of that elementary
good-breeding of which you speak so feelingly.

I find, on the contrary, that men consider us much more than we consider
them. Besides, darling, men must needs be, and are, what we make them. In
a state of society, where women are all true gentlewomen, all men would
become gentlemen.

Come now; just observe and reflect.

Look at two women meeting in the street. What an attitude each assumes
towards the other! What disparaging looks! What contempt they throw into
each glance! How they toss their heads while they inspect each other to
find something to condemn! And, if the footpath is narrow, do you think
one woman would make room for another, or would beg pardon as she sweeps
by? Never! When two men jostle each other by accident in some narrow
lane, each of them bows and at the same time gets out of the other's way,
while we women press against each other stomach to stomach, face to face,
insolently staring each other out of countenance.

Look at two women who are acquaintances meeting on a staircase outside
the door of a friend's drawing-room, one of them just leaving, the other
about to go in. They begin to talk to each other and block up all the
landing. If anyone happens to be coming up behind them, man or woman, do
you imagine that they will put themselves half an inch out of their way?
Never! never!

I was waiting myself, with my watch in my hands, one day last winter at a
certain drawing-room door. And, behind me, two gentlemen were also
waiting without showing any readiness, as I did, to lose their temper.
The reason was that they had long grown accustomed to our unconscionable
insolence.

The other day, before leaving Paris, I went to dine with no less a person
than your husband, in the Champs Elysees, in order to enjoy the fresh
air. Every table was occupied. The waiter asked us to wait and there
would soon be a vacant table.

At that moment I noticed an elderly lady of noble figure, who, having
paid for her dinner, seemed on the point