“What is the row between you and Bev?” she exclaimed, before she had seated herself. “He says you’ve taken a dislike to him, and is in the most beastly temper about it. I never saw him so cut up. He’s sent me here to patch it up and give you this letter. Do tell me what is the matter?” “Well, I’ll tell you,” said Patience, grimly. “The idea of his sending his sister to patch it up!” And she gave an account of Mr. Peele’s performance, woman-like omitting her own momentary forbearance. Hal listened with an amused smile. “So Bev made a bad break,” she remarked when Patience had concluded. “I’m not surprised, for he’s pretty hot-headed, and head over ears in love. You mustn’t take life so tragically. I’ve had several weird experiences myself, although I’m not the kind that men lose their head about as a rule; only given the hour and the occasion, some men will lose their head about any woman. Perhaps I should have said New York men. They are a rare and lovely species. They admire God because he made himself of their gender and knew what he was about when he invented woman. I was out on a sleighing party one moonlight night last winter, and on the back seat with a man I’d never seen out of a ball-room before. The way that man’s legs and arms flew round that sleigh made my hair curl. You see, a lot of us are fast, but then plenty of us are not. The trouble is that the men can’t discriminate, as we look pretty much alike on the outside. They’re not a very clever lot—our society men—and they don’t learn much until they’ve been taught. Then when they are forced to believe in your virtue they feel rather sorry for you, and later on are apt to propose—if you have any money. Bev would propose to you if you were living in a tent and clad in a gunny sack. He would have preferred things the other way—it’s so much less trouble—but as he can’t, he won’t stop at any such trifling nuisance as matrimony. Oh, men are a lovely lot! Still, the world would be a pretty stupid place without them. You’ll learn to manage them in time, and then they’ll only amuse you. They are not really so bad at heart—they’ve been badly educated. I know four married women of the type we call ‘friskies,’ whom my mother would shudder at the thought of excluding from her visiting list, and whom I’d bet my new Paquin trunk, several men I know have had affairs with. So what can you expect of a man?” “Is the world rotten?” asked Patience, in disgust. “It’s just about half and half. I know as many good women as bad. Half the women in society are good wives and devoted mothers. The other half, girls and married women, old and young, are no better than your Rosita. Sometimes their motives are no higher. Usually, though, it’s craving for excitement. I don’t blame those much myself. The most fascinating woman I know is larky. She as much as told me so. Some of the confessions I’ve had from married women would make you gasp. Well—let’s quit the subject. Promise me you’ll forgive Bev.”