"You know, Minnie, women aren't all alike, but they're not all
different. An English writer has them classified to a T--there's the
mother woman--that's you. You're always mothering somebody with that
maternal spirit of yours. It's a pity it's vicarious."
I didn't say anything, not knowing just what he meant. But I've looked
it up since and I guess he was about right.
"And there's the mistress woman--Mrs. Dicky, for example, or--" he saw
Miss Cobb's curler on the mantel and picked it up--"or even Miss Cobb,"
he said. "Coquetry and selfishness without maternal instinct. How
much of Miss Cobb's virtue is training and environment, Minnie, not to
mention lack of temptation, and how much was born in her?"
"She's a preacher's daughter," I remarked. I could understand about Mrs.
Dicky, but I thought he was wrong about Miss Cobb.
"Exactly," he said. "And the third kind of woman is the mistress-mother
kind, and they're the salt of the earth, Minnie." He began to walk up
and down by the spring with his hands in his pockets and a far-away look
in his eyes. "The man who marries that kind of woman is headed straight
for paradise."
"That's the way!" I snapped. "You men have women divided into classes
and catalogued like horses on sale."
"Aren't they on sale?" he demanded, stopping. "Isn't it money, or
liberty, or--or a title, usually?" I knew he was thinking of Miss Patty
again.
"As for the men," I continued, "I guess you can class the married ones
in two classes, providers and non-providers.
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