She shrugged her shoulders. “Fascinating enough, I suppose. But--would you _trust_ him?” “I would not,” replied I. “Nor any other man. I have long since learned not to trust even myself. But I’d trust him as far as the next man--as far as it’s necessary to trust anyone.” She nodded in appreciation and agreement. “I believe he genuinely cares for me,” she said, adding with a melancholy look at me, “And it’s pleasant to be cared about.” “So I have heard,” said I. “You never wanted anyone to care about you,” said she. “You are independent of everything and everybody.” “That’s safest,” said I. She did not reply. After reflecting she burst out with, “You ought to have _made_ me, Godfrey--ought to have trained me to your taste. Women have to be _made_.” “Even if that had been possible in this case,” I observed, “I didn’t know enough.” Again she thought a long time; then with a sigh she said: “But it’s too late now. You’re right. It’s too late.” It puzzled me to note how much the world had taught her in some ways, and how little in others. But that is a familiar puzzle--the unexpected, startling ways in which knowledge juts out into ignorance and ignorance closes in upon knowledge, forming a coast line between the land of knowledge and the sea of ignorance more jagged than that of Alaska or Norway. The result is that each of us is a confused contention of wisdom and folly in which the imperious instincts of elemental passions and appetites, by their steady persistence, easily get their way. “Since I’ve begun to look at these foreign men seriously,” she went on, “to study them-- It’s one thing to size them up, as you say in America, with the idea that they’re mere outsiders--acquaintances--social friends. It’s very different to measure them with a view to serious relations. I’m not altogether a fool--even from your standpoint--am I, Godfrey?” “Distinctly not,” said I. “Since I’ve been _studying_ these upper-class men over here--I’ve changed my mind in some respects. I’m not a child, you know. I haven’t done what I’ve done without using some judgment of men and women.” She flooded me with a smile of gratitude. “I owe my judgment to you, Godfrey. You taught me.” “You never agreed with anything I said--when I did occasionally venture an opinion.” “Because a woman disagrees and scorns--it doesn’t follow that she isn’t convinced.” “You’ve changed your mind about these men?” said I, for my curiosity was aroused. “I find a lack in them. You’re right to a certain extent, Godfrey. They _are_ futile--the cleverest of them. Culture gives a great deal, of course.” “What?” said I. “It’s too long and involved to explain. And you don’t believe in it.” “I’m willing to,” said I. “But first, I’d like to know what it is, and second, I’d like to know what it _does_. I’ve never been able to get anything but words in answer to either question.”