In her heart of hearts
it is a prodigious comfort to a woman to feel herself
misunderstood. Even she who is most perfectly mated, and is
intellectually convinced that the difference of sex is no barrier
to his complete knowledge of her, loves to cherish some little
secret bit of her nature, to which _he_, on account of his
masculinity, will be eternally blind. Of course there are
dull men who could not understand a tabbycat or a professional
cricketer, let alone an expert autothaumaturgist--a
self-mystery-maker--like a woman. But an intelligent and
painstaking man should find no difficulty in appreciating what,
after all, is merely a point of view; for what women see from that
point of view they are as indiscreet in revealing as a two-year-old
babe. I have confessed before that I do not understand Judith
--that is to say the whole welter of contradictions in which her ego
consists--but that is solely because I have not taken the trouble
to subject her to special microscopic study. Such a scientific
analysis would, I think, be an immodest discourtesy towards any
lady of my acquaintance, especially towards one for whom I bear
considerable affection.
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