He laughed, and, getting up, came and stood by my side before the fire. "At least you are honest," he said, drawing my hand through his arm. "It is an estimable virtue." "And strangely rare in woman." "Now leave woman alone. I have discovered you know nothing really of her at all. But _I_ know all about her." "You do? My dear, one woman can never judge the others." "An exploded tradition, dear Sage." "Her opinions are necessarily biassed." "Venerable nonsense, dear Sage." "Because women are each other's natural enemies." "Obsolete jargon, dear Sage." "Well, what do you make of her?" "Why, that she's a DEAR, and that you ought to be very happy and thankful to have got one of her always with you." "But am I not?" he asked, putting his arm round me and looking affectionate; and when people begin to look affectionate I, for one, cease to take any further interest in them. And so the Man of Wrath and I fade away into dimness and muteness, my head resting on his shoulder, and his arm encircling my waist; and what could possibly be more proper, more praiseworthy, or more picturesque? End of Project Gutenberg's The Solitary Summer, by Elizabeth von Arnim