They are right; men shrink from a fussy woman. And few can aspire to
regulate the destinies of their species, even in so slight a point as an
hour's amusement, without rare powers. There is no greater sin than to
be _trop prononcee_. A want of tact is worse than a want of virtue.
Some women, it is said, work on pretty well against the tide without the
last: I never knew one who did not sink who ever dared to sail without
the first.
Loud when they should be low, quoting the wrong person, talking on
the wrong subject, teasing with notice, excruciating with attentions,
disturbing a tete-a-tete in order to make up a dance; wasting eloquence
in persuading a man to participate in amusement whose reputation depends
on his social sullenness; exacting homage with a restless eye, and
not permitting the least worthy knot to be untwined without their
divinityships' interference; patronising the meek, anticipating the
slow, intoxicated with compliment, plastering with praise, that you in
return may gild with flattery; in short, energetic without elegance,
active without grace, and loquacious without wit; mistaking bustle
for style, raillery for badinage, and noise for gaiety, these are the
characters who mar the very career they think they are creating, and who
exercise a fatal influence on the destinies of all those who have the
misfortune to be connected with them.
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