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asked.
Why, yes, she replied with a candid air of astonishment. It
is a funny story.
There is nothing funny whatever in it, said I. A girl like
you oughtn't to know of the existence of such things.
Why not? asked Carlotta.
I am always being caught up by her questions. I tried to
explain; but it was difficult. If I had told her that a maiden's
mind ought to be as pure as the dewy rose she would not have
understood me. Probably she would have thought me a fool. And
indeed I am inclined to question whether it is an advantage to a
maiden's after career to be dewyroselike in her
unsophistication. In order to play tunes indifferently well on
the piano she undergoes the weary training of many years; but she
is called upon to display the somewhat more important
accomplishment of bringing children into the world without an
hour's educational preparation. The difficulty is, where to draw
the line between this dewy, but often disastrous, ignorance and
Carlotta's knowledge. I find it a most delicate and embarrassing
problem. In fact, the problems connected with this young woman
seem endless. Yet they do not disturb me as much as I had
anticipated. I really believe I should miss my pretty Persian
cat. A man must be devoid of all aesthetic sense to deny that
she is delightful to look at.
And she has a thousand innocent coquetries and cajoling ways.
She has a manner of holding chocolate creams to her white teeth
and talking to you at the same time which is peculiarly
fascinating. And she must have some sense. Tonight she asked
me what I was writing. I replied, A History of the Morals of
the Renaissance.
What are morals and what is the Renaissance? asked Carlotta.
When you come to think of it, it is a profound question, which
philosophers and historians have wasted vain lives in trying to
answer. I perceive that I too must try to answer it with a
certain amount of definition. I have spent the evening
remodelling my Introduction, so as to define the two terms
axiomatically with my subsequent argument, and I find it greatly
improved. Now this is due to Carlotta.
The quantity of chocolate creams the child eats cannot be good
for her digestion. I must see to this.
July 2d.
A telegram from Judith to say she postpones her return to Monday.
I have been longing to see the dear woman again, and I am greatly
disappointed. At the same time it is a respite from an
explanation that grows more difficult every day. I hate myself

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