any lady of my acquaintance, especially towards one for whom I bear considerable affection.  It would be as unwarrantable for a decent-minded 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 humble-minded, 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.

CHAPTER XII

August 3d.

Etretat, Seine-Injerieure:—­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.