No mystery. No exclusiveness of natural power. Nothing abnormal.
Men, on their estimable qualities and position, were what they were
merely because, as the works of a watch, thus and thus the wheels
were made to go round. Easy. Nothing in it. On the contrary. On
the contrary, men were the more despicable in that, dowered as by
tradition they were dowered, they yet were--what they were! The
eyes that had been caused to blink by Robert blowing smoke through
his nose and by Harold pulling up his collar and speaking with a
"haw!" sound, blinked from a contempt yet more profound (because
now known for contempt) at the exhibition, seen all about her, of
men's unlovely side. And she dismissed them. They did not attract
her in the smallest degree. All that they had in them to esteem,
whether of qualities or of position, they had--here was the parallel--in
common with drones in a hive. They had the best of everything; they
were blundering, blustering, noisy, careless, buccaneering owners
of the world, and to her--as all the roystering swarm to any
individual worker bee--to her, negligible. She was a worker bee,
busy, purposeful.
There is a special function belonging to drones in a hive. That
special function of men in regard to women was repellant to Rosalie.
All that pertained to it was repulsive to her. She loathed to think
of men in that capacity and she loathed to see women ensnared in
that regard by men. Beautiful cousin Laetitia and the "good match"
that obviously had been found for her: she detested seeing those
two together: it made her feel sick.
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