Skelton quite agreed with this sentiment. If the late Mrs. Skelton had not been so distractedly fond of him, for example, and had simply done for him what any reasonably affectionate wife would have done for her husband, he would not now be in the hateful position in which he found himself. Her relations would be welcome to her money, but she had put it quite out of the question that it should ever be theirs. “Women are monstrous queer creatures, anyhow,” resumed Bulstrode despondingly, as if his whole past and future hinged upon the queerness of women. Skelton could not forbear smiling a little. Bulstrode had suffered about as little from the sex as any man that ever lived. “Woman, as we know her, is a comparatively modern invention,” answered Skelton, still smiling. “She didn’t exist until a few hundred years ago.” “That’s it,” answered Bulstrode eagerly. “It’s the only fault I find with my old chums, the classics; they didn’t have any right notions at all about women; they didn’t know anything between a goddess and a slave. But these modern fellows, with Will Shakespeare at the head of the crew, know it all, blamed if they don’t! There is that little Juliet, for example--all love and lies, and the sweetest little creetur’ in the world! Now, what did any of those old Greek fellows know about such a woman? And it’s a common enough type. For my part, I’m mortally afraid of the whole sex--afraid of the good because they are so good, and afraid of the bad because they are so deuced bad. And as for their conversation, it’s a revelation, from that damned Mrs. Shapleigh up.” Skelton could not keep from laughing at the mere mention of Mrs. Shapleigh’s name, although he was in no laughing mood. “Shoot me,” cried Bulstrode with energy, “if that woman isn’t a walking _non sequitur_!” To this Skelton only answered: “Every human being has a natural and unalienable right to make a fool of himself or herself. But Mrs. Shapleigh abuses the privilege.” “Drat her,” was Bulstrode’s only comment. “How do you account for Miss Shapleigh’s wit and charming _esprit_?” asked Skelton, with some appearance of interest. “Because she’s Mrs. Shapleigh’s daughter: everything goes according to the rule of contrary in this world. I like to hear that grey-eyed Sylvia talk; there’s nothing like it in the books, it is so sparkling, inconsequent, and delightful. And she’s got something mightily like an intellect. Mind, I don’t admit that women have minds in the sense of abstract intellect, but I say she has got such a vast fund of perceptions mixed up with her emotions, that it’s twice as useful as your mind, or mine either. Her education, too, is better than mine, for it’s all experience, while I am nothing but a sack full of other folks’ ideas.”