Willoughby. Her husband wants me to spend August and September
at a place they have taken in North Wales, and help him with his
new book--as a private secretary, you know. I said that I never
went into society. I must tell you this was the first time I had
seen her. She put her hand on my arm in the sweetest way in the
world and said: 'I know all about it, my dear, and that is why I
thought I'd come myself as Harold's ambassador.' Wasn't it
beautiful of her?"
She looked at me and her eyes were filled with tears.
"Marcus dear, I am not a bad woman, am I?"
"My dearest," I answered, very deeply touched, "you are the best
woman in the world. So far from conferring a favour on you, Mrs.
Willoughby has gained for herself the inestimable privilege of
your friendship."
"Ah!" said Judith, "a man cannot tell what it means."
Really men are not such dullard dunderheads as women are pleased
to imagine. I have the most crystalline perception of what Mrs.
Willoughby's invitation means to Judith. Women appear to find a
morbid satisfaction in the fiction that their sex is actuated by
a mysterious nexus of emotions and motives which the grosser
sense of man is powerless to appreciate.
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