—­I paid the respect due to that most significant monosyllable, which, as the old Rabbi spoke it, with its targum of tone and expression, was not to be answered flippantly, but soberly, advisedly, and after a pause long enough for it to unfold its meaning in the listener’s mind.  For there are short single words (all the world remembers Rachel’s Helas!) which are like those Japanese toys that look like nothing of any significance as you throw them on the water, but which after a little time open out into various strange and unexpected figures, and then you find that each little shred had a complicated story to tell of itself.

-Yes,—­said I, at the close of this silent interval, during which the monosyllable had been opening out its meanings,—­She.  When I think of talking, it is of course with a woman.  For talking at its best being an inspiration, it wants a corresponding divine quality of receptiveness; and where will you find this but in woman?

The Master laughed a pleasant little laugh,—­not a harsh, sarcastic one, but playful, and tempered by so kind a look that it seemed as if every wrinkled line about his old eyes repeated, “God bless you,” as the tracings on the walls of the Alhambra repeat a sentence of the Koran.

I said nothing, but looked the question, What are you laughing at?

—­Why, I laughed because I couldn’t help saying to myself that a woman whose mind was taken up with thinking how she looked, and how her pretty neighbor looked, wouldn’t have a great deal of thought to spare for all your fine discourse.

—­Come, now,—­said I,—­a man who contradicts himself in the course of two minutes must have a screw loose in his mental machinery.  I never feel afraid that such a thing can happen to me, though it happens often enough when I turn a thought over suddenly, as you did that five-cent piece the other day, that it reads differently on its two sides.  What I meant to say is something like this.  A woman, notwithstanding she is the best of listeners, knows her business, and it is a woman’s business to please.  I don’t say that it is not her business to vote, but I do say that a woman who does not please is a false note in the harmonies of nature.  She may not have youth, or beauty, or even manner; but she must have something in her voice or expression, or both, which it makes you feel better disposed towards your race to look at or listen to.  She knows that as well as we do; and her first question after you have been talking your soul into her consciousness is, Did I please?  A woman never forgets her sex.  She would rather talk with a man than an angel, any day.

—­This frightful speech of mine reached the ear of our Scheherezade, who said that it was perfectly shocking and that I deserved to be shown up as the outlaw in one of her bandit stories.

Hush, my dear,—­said the Lady,—­you will have to bring John Milton into your story with our friend there, if you punish everybody who says naughty things like that.  Send the little boy up to my chamber for Paradise Lost, if you please.  He will find it lying on my table.  The little old volume,—­he can’t mistake it.