Quite small in size, I sat upon her dressing-room table, 
my back reflecting in three mirrors at once, while I said: 

         ‘I realise that ballet-dancers perform on their 
“points” to gain something of the effect seen in deer, cats 
and other toe-walking animals, except that having only two 
legs, the process appears unbalanced, unsupported, almost 
an attempt at floating in the air (which, being dainty, 
they must move with something of the stilted jab of the 
one-time footbound Chinese women, or even of the modern 
woman raised and thrown forward by an immoderately high 
shoe-heel:  and all presumably for motives of sexual excitement, 
seeming thus “helpless”, needing “support”, the apparent 
imminence of “falling” being all very symbolical and 
seductive to men and entertaining to women.’ 

         She appeared not to take the slightest notice of 
what I was saying, but having drawn on her pink tights and 
secured her muslin tutu and spangled bodice, she gave me 
an affectionate smile and a hurried kiss before leaving 
me dwarfed and stranded by a huge jar of cold cream.