"Inexperienced! Ah, well, men have an amazing weakness for some kinds of inexperience—in a girl. In a wife they’re not so keen on it. My dear, if unmarried girls would only put themselves in a wife’s place, what a lot of trouble they’d save—for us now and for themselves later on. But of course, they can’t do it. They think marriage is a picnic on a motorcycle with the bride in the carriage attachment. What a dream! Marriage is more like a tennis game with the two players facing each other across the dividing line of sex. You’ll find that out the day after the wedding! You’ll know then that the only way to manage a husband is to discover his weakest point and keep driving at that until the game and the set are in your hands. Mr. Grey’s weakest point is his horror of facing facts. He dreads a fact the way a boy dreads soap. I discovered that at our honeymoon hotel when we debated how to stop the waiter from serving us with cold soup. Rather than compel the waiter to change it, Mr. Grey tried to prove that the soup was really quite hot. No, I’m not the tartar you think I am. I don’t object to a man having his fling now and then, provided it’s a short fling. But I can’t let him get into the grip of a girl of your sort, the permanent sort. That might introduce fatal complications, and I don’t mean to take any chances." "Then why did you let me come here in the first place?" "Because you took me in completely," replied this astonishing woman. "You had none of the obvious female ways. You were almost pathetically businesslike and you seemed to be—well—no beauty. Excuse me for being frank." "The excuses are all on my side, I’m sure," said Janet, highly amused. "Not at all, my dear. I’m convinced I was quite wrong. You grow on one, even on a woman. I soon found out that beneath your dovelike innocence there was a serpentine wisdom. It’s a magic combination. No man can resist it." "Thank you, Mrs. Grey. This flattery is more than I deserve, but—" "It’s no good protesting. There is a devilish fascination about you. If I’m beginning to feel it myself, what must poor Mr. Grey feel?" And with a gesture which betokened that, in these matters, feelings transcended verbal arguments and oral contracts, she paid Janet what was owing to her and made it clear that she need not come again. At the door, she wished Janet good luck. "My dear," she said, "as a typist you cut rather a poor figure. But that combination I spoke of—it’s worth a fortune—"