So it was not Ida Barton's suit, although the women deceived
themselves into thinking it was. It was, first of all, say her
legs; or, first of all, say the totality of her, the sweet and
brilliant jewel of her femininity bursting upon them. Dowager,
matron, and maid, conserving their soft-fat muscles or protecting
their hot-house complexions in the shade of the hau-tree arbour,
felt the immediate challenge of her. She was menace as well, an
affront of superiority in their own chosen and variously successful
game of life.
But they did not say it. They did not permit themselves to think
it. They thought it was the suit, and said so to one another,
ignoring the twenty women more daringly clad but less perilously
beautiful. Could one have winnowed out of the souls of these
disapproving ones what lay at bottom of their condemnation of her
suit, it would have been found to be the sex-jealous thought: THAT
NO WOMAN, SO BEAUTIFUL AS THIS ONE, SHOULD BE PERMITTED TO SHOW HER
BEAUTY. It was not fair to them. What chance had they in the
conquering of males with so dangerous a rival in the foreground?
They were justified.
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