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Now that I come to think of it,
there is something adorably infantile in grown up women. Shall
man ever understand them? I have seen babies (not many, I am
glad to say) crow with delight at having their toes pulled, with a
"this little pig went to market," and so forth; Judith almost
crowed at having the weeks told off on her fingers. Queer!
An hour was taken up with the account of her doings in Paris.
She had met all the nicest and naughtiest people. She had been
courted and flattered. An artist in a slouch hat, baggy corduroy
breeches, floppy tie and general 1830 misfit had made love to her
on the top of the Eiffel Tower.

"And he said," laughed Judith, "'_Partons ensemble. Comme on dit
en Anglais_--fly with me!' I remarked that our state when we got
to the Champs de Mars would be an effective disguise. He didn't
understand, and it was delicious!"
I laughed. "All the same," I observed, "I can't see the fun of
making jokes which the person to whom you make them doesn't see
the point of."
"Why, that's your own peculiar form of humour," she retorted.


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