exhibited, poor thing, in New York. Are n't you sorry for her and for me? We shall both be so dreadfully criticised. You cannot conceive the sort of terror that grows upon me when I have nearly finished a piece of work,—the fear of ridicule. I don't mind being told that I don't know anything about art, that my modelling is bad, my conception weak, my execution anything but what it should be; but I do mind being laughed at, for my work, faulty as it is, has been done in very serious earnest, and it seems but fair that if it is to be condemned, it should be in a spirit of serious criticism, not of flippant satire."
"I should like to know who would dare to treat you or your work with disrespect. I—I would kill any man who dared to speak of it as you say." He looked fierce enough to carry out his threat.
Margaret laughed, saying: "And the women, what would you do to them? They are unapproachable, and under the invulnerable armor of their sex they discharge the poisoned arrows of envy, slander, and all uncharitableness; and we, the workers, must endure it without a murmur, for they, being but talkers, can always have the last word."
"Are they all like this?"
"No, good friend; thank Heaven, there are very few such traitors in the army of working women."
