"Oh, no. It’s no good asking a woman questions when you don’t know, when you haven’t the faintest idea of what her answer is going to be. She knows very well just how ignorant you are and, by a subtle process of the mind, she superimposes that ignorance upon herself. And if you go on asking her direct questions, there comes a moment when she really doesn’t know either. Then she makes it up or tells you she has forgotten. Isn’t that true?" She watched him all the time he spoke. He might have been talking nonsense. He probably was; but there seemed to be some echo of the truth of it far away in the hidden recesses of her mind. She seemed to remember many times when just such a process had taken place within her. But how had he known that, when she had never realised it before? "What do you do, then, when you don’t know, if you don’t ask questions?" He took a loose cigarette from his pocket and slowly lit it. "Ah--then you have recourse to that wonderful method of finding out. It’s so difficult, so almost impossible, and that’s why it’s so wonderful. To begin with, you pretend you don’t want to know. That must be the first step. All others--and there are hundreds--follow after that; but you must pretend you don’t want to know, or she’ll never tell you. But I am sure your mother’s been saying something to you about me, and I really want to know what it is. How did she come to hear about me?" He knew it would be easy for her to begin with that. No woman will tell unless it is easy. "Did you tell her?" he suggested gently, knowing that she did not. "Oh, no--I didn’t. It was Ronald." "Ah--he said something?" "Yes--at lunch--something about the papers." "And you had to explain?" "Yes." "Was she vexed?" "Yes--rather. Well--I suppose it did sound rather funny, you know." "You told her about St. Joseph?" "I said where I’d met you, in the Sardinia St. Chapel." She smiled up at him incredulously. "You didn’t think I’d tell her that St. Joseph had introduced us, did you?" "Why not? St. Joseph’s a very proper man." "Yes--on his altar, but not in Kensington." "Well--what did she say?" "She asked where you lived." "Oh----" It is impossible to make comparison between Fetter Lane and Prince of Wales’ Terrace without a face longer than is your wont--especially if it is you who live in Fetter Lane. "And you told her you didn’t know." "Of course." She said it so expectantly, so hopefully that he would divulge the terrible secret which meant so much to the continuation of their acquaintance. "And what did she say to that?" "She said, of course, that it was impossible for me to know you until you had come properly as a visitor to the house, and that she couldn’t ask you until she knew where you lived. And I suppose that’s quite right." "I suppose it is," said John. "At any rate you agree with her?" "I suppose so." It meant she didn’t. One never does the thing one supposes to be right; there’s no satisfaction in it.