"We are going to be married in April, and I shall chuck my job."
Thus a young girl friend of mine, says a writer in the "Daily Mail, who has the world, as you might her feet and is giving up everything to marry a young man with a smell income and nothing much in the way of prospects.
When she had finished her story she looked at me reproachfully. "Well aren't you going to congratulate me?"
Me? That dim shape going past in a bus? Lady Astor? A copper-coloured girl in Honolulu? A typist in New York City? An Eskimo?
Let us pull ourselves together. There is no such thing as "a woman," an average woman, equipped with average powers, average appearance, average emotions, average dreams.
There are only individual persons, sharply different, unaccountable, mysterious.
Career Wasted?
Other Callings I? I had to think for a I had to think of that young woman's school career; Wherein she showed so much promise that her fernily took the headmistress advice and scraped her university fees out of their limited income.
I had io think of her progress at college; of her degree; of her flying start in the advertising world.
She has made a big success; in five years she came io the top. Her salary rose to £600 a year: plus bonuses. She was heading for a directorship.
She likes the money. She loves the job. She could, if she stayed, have all the kick of a really responsible post in a big business house, And she is giving it up.
"No," I said, "sorry to be tough. But I am not going to congratulate you. I think you're rether an ass."
There are, in my view, men and women who are better without marriage; better without children
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.