H. B. Marriott Watson

“ Fletcher shifted her position, and looked somewhat put out; she gazed at the door again. It was the young man who resumed the conversation.
“What you say is very true, and it has often occurred to me. Handsome is as handsome does. Of course, beauty in the abstract is to be admired. But how insensate is this worship of beauty, and this artificial cultivation of it by women! They should throw off the trammels of tradition and the novel, and frankly declare their indifference to the other sex.” ”

“ When she turned round again she developed her argument.
“Beauty, of course, is desirable in everything,” she remarked judicially. “But its importance is exaggerated.”
“Grossly,” he said emphatically. “I wouldn't give——”
“I think it might be as well not to err on the side of extravagance,” said Miss Fletcher dryly. “Of course, a beautiful woman, like a beautiful picture, or a piece of furniture, is nice to look at.”
“That's it; she's nothing more than a beautiful piece of furniture,” said the young man, nodding.
Miss Fletcher frowned; very prettily, of course. ”

“ There did not seem to be any way round it, and Miss Fletcher, seeing him reduced to silence, very kindly unbent. She continued the disquisition. “The whole thing, in effect, resolves itself into this—that women have other interests of considerably more importance than that of mere marriage. They're not always thinking of men and marriage, as the trashy novels make them out.” ”