Gynecocracy

"Yes," I said, looking fondly at him as he stood before me; and as, giving and receiving a kiss, he disappeared, I rushed to my room. What a narrow, what a fortunate escape!

I leisurely put my things on before the glass, a hat, a pair of tennis shoes, and changed my skirt for a tennis one. I looked at myself, and thought: "Now, Julia, thank goodness! You know you are a girl, and are, perhaps, going to have a baby."

I recollected my rude, hobbledehoy, hoydenish days, when I believed I was a boy and wondered at the change so surprising, so far reaching, so complete, that had overtaken me.

My former rudeness and roughness and violence positively shocked and astounded me. I felt ashamed of them and blushed deeply. They were so disgraceful in one who all the time should have been in petticoats.

So thorough was this system of discipline that to this day when I know all about it and understand how I was mystified, the impression is still strong upon me and exercises a most wonderfully taming and domesticating effect.

On the way down I met Mademoiselle.

"May I congratulate you, Julia dear?"

"Oh, Mademoiselle!" I cried.

"Am I cut out?" she asked, with that playfulness which she never lost.

"Oh, Mademoiselle, no!" I answered, a little indignantly.

"But how about Alfred? I suppose he is now-?"

I blushed deeply. My wits came to my rescue.

"You know," I said, in very low, hushed tones, "you said I was an hermaphrodite. I belong to you just as much as to him."

"You are a dear boy-girl, I mean, Julia." And she kissed me. "Never mind the tennis. Come with me to my boudoir and tell me all about it. We'll have some tea or chocolate or what you like."

And how delighted I was to obey.

CHAPTER 2

That Night In The Drawing room

As I returned to my room for the purpose of substituting for my short, tight skirt (fitted for tennis but not for the dalliance of Mademoiselle's boudoir) a loose tea gown and high-heeled shoes, a rush of memories flooded my mind in an unaccountable fashion-memories of that evening, now some days past, when I saw the rich, full bosom of Beatrice, in her low-cut evening dress, hidden by an ugly oblong card suspended by a scarlet ribbon from her radiant neck on which was inscribed, in letters an inch long, the word PROSTITUTE

What thoughts, what notions and ideas, what immorality and profligacy, this single symbol-this single expression-on the swelling bosom of my future wife evoked!

"Oh, Beatrice!" Agnes had cried, clapping her hands, as Beatrice entered the brilliantly lighted drawing room before dinner. "What a-a-charming one-you are! If only I were a man!"

Beatrice's anger, rising at the first half of the sentence, was momentarily diverted by its close. She looked at me full and distinctly betrayed the fact her chief concern was as to how I should take her disgrace. Without being aware of it, I felt flattered.

And I suppose it was the sense conveyed by this assurance of her concern about me, lingering upon my mind, that caused me now to stand and think and wonder instead of hastening to Mademoiselle as I should have done.

Agnes, however, did not escape, for Beatrice, averting her eyes from me, and returning to her first impulse, walked up to her, her teeth clenched and her eyes flashing and hissing the words "You wretch!" gave her two sound boxes, one upon each ear, before Agnes could recover from her surprise at the storm she had raised.

I abandoned myself somewhat inopportunely and somewhat to my own surprise, to a resume in my thoughts of that delicious, eventful evening-delicious, principally, I verily believe, because Beatrice had to undergo then what she was so fond of inflicting. I delighted in the discomfiture and humiliation the proud beauty had suffered.

Agnes looked pretty and girlish in her elegant frock. At the blows she changed colour but appeared more disturbed at the threat with which Beatrice followed them up.

"There, you impudent baggage! Just you wait awhile and I will make you wear a card like this behind and before!"

Agnes dared not reply, but I could see her pretty bosom heave and grow crimson whilst a defiant glance shot from her eyes.

Maud was in the room and watched what went on with quiet amusement; but, as usual, was too careless, too serenely indifferent, to take any active part. She had looked up at Beatrice's entrance and at Agnes' remark, but then, with an impatient kick of her dress, and a disdainful pout, she continued her perusal of the novel she was reading while we waited for Mademoiselle and the gong.

The whole scene returned with surprising vividness to my mind though I was much puzzled why it should do so at that particular moment.