“When I left them,” said Tranton, resuming the talk we had begun in the other room, “they were all quarreling over the question of Kipling’s treatment of women. It was a great circus. That Miss Fanchell said she didn’t think that Kipling could have known many good women—I think she said _any_ good women—at the beginning, and that since he married an American girl, rather than modify his literary attitude, he preferred to write about men, beasts and locomotives. Mrs. Arch thought that he only used women as literary accessories, and Mrs. Gameston said she had heard that Kipling was very timid with women and that of course he _couldn’t_ understand them very well. Little Miss Stillberry said it was quite inevitable that men should know more of forward women. They appealed to me before I got away, and I told them I could be of no help whatever, because I didn’t understand either women or Kipling, though I liked both. I ventured to say, however, that if the American girl Kipling had married didn’t make him like women, in my opinion there was no hope for him. That let me out.” “I should think it ought to,” I said. “Women,” went on Tranton, with his eyes critically directed toward the bowl of his pipe, “will forgive a man for not understanding them, but never for not wanting to. Every debate of that sort has this explanation.” “Did you tell them that?” “I didn’t have time to stay and tease them. Perhaps I didn’t think of it until I got away. That often happens, doesn’t it?” “It is better to think of a good thing we might have said than of an awkward thing we wish we hadn’t. If they had been wise women, Tranton, they would have spent their time devising ways to get you to tell the truth about them. Admitting that you don’t understand women, your knowledge of them, your command of data, give you the means of being hugely entertaining.” “Do you think so?” asked Tranton, still studying the pipe bowl. “I wish I could translate them as well as they can translate us.” “You would do it with an unction, Tranton, and I am entirely certain that you never would be accused of _lèse majesté_.” “Speaking of translating,” said Tranton, “a girl told me about a book the other day—outlined for me the Brother Henry chapter of ‘My Lady Nicotine,’ which somehow I never had read, but which I certainly shall read a good many times. I got the book, and I give you my word that, making allowance for the fact that she had the first try, the chapter, delicious as it is, is not so good as her translation was, hasn’t the flavor that her exquisite humor got into it. I could not help thinking how lucky Barrie would have been if there was some way in which he could have written that chapter after she had told him about it.” “Hence,” I said, “the greatest luck that can befall a man is that he shall have a translator in the house.” [Illustration]