‘Well, let me see,’ Eleanor laughed. ‘I once knew a professor of psychology in a little speck of a New England college. He spent his whole life in thinking, and he’d arrived at some very queer conclusions. He was most entertaining—he knew absolutely nothing about the world.’ A shade of something like remorse crossed her face, and she hastily abandoned the professor. ‘Did I say there were any more? I can’t think who the fifth can be, unless I include the blacksmith who married my maid. I never knew him personally; I merely judge from her report of him. He beats her, I believe, when he gets angry; but he’s so apologetic afterward that she enjoys it. If you’ve ever read _Wuthering Heights_ he’s exactly like Heathcliff. I’d really like to know him. He’d be worth studying.’ ‘That’s the trouble,’ complained Marcia. ‘If you’re a man you can go around and get acquainted with any one you please, whether he’s a blacksmith or a prince; but if you’re a girl you have to wait till you’re introduced at a tea. And the interesting ones never are introduced at teas.’ ‘Yes,’ agreed Eleanor; ‘that’s partly true. But, on the other hand, I think you really get to know people better if you’re a girl—what they’re really like inside, I mean. Men are remarkably confidential creatures.’ ‘Did you find Mr. Sybert confidential?’ ‘N-no. I can’t say that I did. He’s queer, isn’t he? You have the feeling that he doesn’t talk about what he thinks about—that’s why I should like to know him. It’s not what a man does that makes him interesting; it’s what he thinks. It’s his potentialities.’ Margaret rose with something of a yawn. ‘If you’re going to discuss potentialities, I’m going to bed. Come on, Eleanor. To-morrow’s the festa of Our Lady of Good Counsel, and we start at nine o’clock.’ Eleanor rose reluctantly. ‘I wish we weren’t going to Perugia on Wednesday. I should much rather stay here with Marcia.’ ‘And Mr. Sybert,’ Margaret laughed. ‘Oh, yes, Mr. Sybert,’ Eleanor acquiesced. ‘He annoys you until you get him settled.’ ‘He’s like one of those problems in algebra,’ suggested Marcia. ‘Given a lot of things, to find the value of x. You work it exactly right and x won’t come.’ Margaret paused by the door and gathered her wrapper around her like a toga. ‘While you’re talking about interesting people,’ she threw back, ‘I know one who isn’t appreciated, and that’s Paul. He’s a mighty nice boy.’ ‘That’s just what he is,’ said Eleanor. ‘A nice boy—_et c’est tout_. Good night, Marcia. When we come back from Perugia we’ll sit up all night talking about interesting men. It’s an interesting subject.’ CHAPTER XV