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decentminded man to speculate upon her exact spiritual
dimensions as upon those portions of her physical frame that are
hidden beneath her attire. The charm of human intercourse rests,
to a great extent, on the vague, the deliberately unperceived,
the stimulating sense that an individual possesses more
attributes than flash upon the bodily or mental eye. But this, I
say, is deliberate. One knows perfectly well that beneath her
skirts any young woman you please does not melt away into the
scaly tail of a mermaid, but has a pair of ordinary commonplace
legs. One knows that when she has passed through certain well
defined experiences in life, a certain definite range of
sentiments must exist behind whatever mask of facial expression
she may choose to adopt. It is sheer nonsense, therefore, for
Judith to say that I cannot enter into her feelings with regard
to Mrs. Willoughby's invitation.
I developed this theme very fully to Judith as we sat in
Kensington Gardens and during our subsequent, stroll diagonally
through Hyde Park to the Marble Arch. She listened with great
attention, and when I had finished regarded me in a pitying
manner, a smile flickering over her lips.
My dear Marcus, she said, there is no man, however
humbleminded, who has not one colossal vanity, his knowledge
of women. He, at any rate, has established the veritable Theory
of Women. And we laugh at you, my good friend, for the more
you expound, the more do you reveal your beautiful and artistic
ignorance. Oh, Marcus, the idea of you setting up as a feminine
psychologist.
And pray, why not? I asked, somewhat nettled.
Because you are that dear, impossible, lovable thing known as
Marcus Ordeyne.
This was exceedingly pretty of Judith. But really woman is the
Eternal Philistine, as Matthew Arnold has defined the term. Her
supreme characteristic is inconvincibility. I had simply wasted
my breath.
_Etretat, SeineInjerieure_:A young fellow on the Casino
terrace this evening caught my eye, looked at me queerly, and
passed on. His face, though unfamiliar, stirred some dormant
association. What was it? The profitless question pestered me
for hours. At last, during the performance at the theatre, I
slapped my knee and said aloud
I've got it!
What? asked Carlotta in alarm.
A fly, I answered. Whereat Carlotta laughed, and bent forward
to get a view of the victim. I austerely directed her attention
to the stage. It was a metaphorical fly whose buzzing I had
stopped.
The young fellow was he who had pointed me out in Hyde Park to
his companion, and lightly assured her that I was as mad as a

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