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on paper.
I have been wondering since whether that is not as ironical a
judgment as ever was passed. Am I wise? Is wisdom attained by
reading in big books and writing on paper? Solomon remarks that
wisdom dwells with prudence and finds out knowledge of witty
inventions; that the wisdom of the prudent is to understand his
way; that wisdom and understanding keep one from the strange
woman and the stranger which flattereth with her words. Now, I
have not been saved from the strange young woman who has begun to
flatter with her words; I don't in the least understand my way,
since I have no notion what I shall do with her; and in taking
her in and letting her loll upon my sofa of evenings, so as to
show off her red slippers to my guests, I have thrown prudence to
the winds; and my only witty invention was the idea of teaching
her typewriting, which is futile. If the philosophy of the
excellent aphorist is sound, I certainly have not much wisdom to
boast of; and none of the big books will tell me what a wise man
would have done had he met Carlotta in the Embankment Gardens.
I did not think, however, that my wisdom was a proper subject for
discussion. I jerked back the conversation by asking Carlotta
why she called Hamdi Effendi a shocking bad man. Her reply was
startling.
My mother told me. She used to cry all day long. She was sorry
she married Hamdi.
Poor thingl said I. Did he illtreat her?
Oh, yees. She had smallpox, too, and she was no longer
pretty, so Hamdi took other wives and she did not like them.
They were so fat and cruel. She used to tell me I must kill
myself before I married a Turk. Hamdi was going to make me marry
Mohammed Ali onetwo years ago; but he died. When I said I was
so glad (that seems to be her usual formula of acknowledgment of
news relating to the disasters of her acquaintance), Hamdi shut
me up in a dark room. Then he said I must marry Mustapha. That
is why I ran away with Harry. See? Oh, Hamdi is shocking bad.
From this and from other sidelights Carlotta has thrown on her
upbringing, I can realise the poor, pretty weakwilled baby of a
thing that was her mother, taking the line of least resistance,
the husband dead and the babe in her womb, and entering the
shelter offered by the amorous Turk. And I can picture her
during the fourteen years of her imprisoned life, the

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