"I leave that an open question for the reader to speculate about. But you may rest assured of one thing, Miss Arkroyd--the young person in my novel is about as unlike my dear wife as she can be." He had determined to pay some little tribute to his dear wife as soon as the chance came, that she should lie less upon his conscience. Here it was. "Marianne is the exact opposite--a pussycat upon the hearthrug--a ... kettle singing on the hob, you might almost say. She's not exactly what's called a clever woman, certainly...." "But she is none the worse for that! How I do hate clever women!" All the same, Judith thought to herself: "Why couldn't he leave her in peace, on the hearthrug or the hob?" His last reservation had spoiled his little tribute, and indeed, he felt it himself. Bother! Setting it right would make it worse. In spite of a fervent murmur from the young lady, that she felt she knew exactly what Mrs. Challis was like, and that they would be sure to understand each other, and what a pity it was Mrs. Challis had not been able to come, he felt he would do best to _brusquer_ the conversation. He couldn't well say "Marianne isn't here because your mother never invited her--only told her she might come." So, feeling that if he could detach the conversation from Marianne personally he did not very much care by what means the end was effected, he made a fragmentary remark to the effect that he _had_ had an original in his mind for the neurotic heroine, but quite a different person from his wife--utterly unlike her. "Unlike in appearance--individuality--everything! Is that the market-cross?" No, it wasn't the market-cross; it was the pump. So Mr. Challis's conclusion did very little towards its object. Judith halted as before, after establishing the pump. She knew she was going to be impertinent again; and drawled a word or two to that effect, to get on a safe footing. "But do forgive me," she said, "if I ask who the lady was. You needn't tell me, you know." And then, as Challis wavered between disclosure and concealment, put in a word to clinch matters: "Treat me as a friend. We can always quarrel, you know!" The soul-brush seemed to go a little quicker. This author was a man who fancied he understood womankind--and probably his was a fair average of knowledge in a department where so much ignorance exists. But there was one sort of woman he could _not_ understand--the woman with a stronger nature than his own. He had only mixed with his equals, so far. He could be quite unaware that he was being influenced--could still persuade himself, as a tribute to his manhood, that he was acting from a politic motive. He could make an astute note that his insight into humanity--"Human Nature ... behooves that I know it"--showed him that he could place confidence in this lady. It had nothing to do with her eyes or her outline. It was his Insight.