Alas! no such feat was in my power. To-day, as usual, his quotations fell ineffectual: he soon shifted his ground. “Women of intellect” was his next theme: here he was at home. A “woman of intellect,” it appeared, was a sort of “lusus naturae,” a luckless accident, a thing for which there was neither place nor use in creation, wanted neither as wife nor worker. Beauty anticipated her in the first office. He believed in his soul that lovely, placid, and passive feminine mediocrity was the only pillow on which manly thought and sense could find rest for its aching temples; and as to work, male mind alone could work to any good practical result—hein? This “hein?” was a note of interrogation intended to draw from me contradiction or objection. However, I only said—“Cela ne me regarde pas: je ne m’en soucie pas;” and presently added—“May I go, Monsieur? They have rung the bell for the second déjeuner” (_i.e._ luncheon). “What of that? You are not hungry?” “Indeed I was,” I said; “I had had nothing since breakfast, at seven, and should have nothing till dinner, at five, if I missed this bell.” “Well, he was in the same plight, but I might share with him.” And he broke in two the “brioche” intended for his own refreshment, and gave me half. Truly his bark was worse than his bite; but the really formidable attack was yet to come. While eating his cake, I could not forbear expressing my secret wish that I really knew all of which he accused me. “Did I sincerely feel myself to be an ignoramus?” he asked, in a softened tone. If I had replied meekly by an unqualified affirmative, I believe he would have stretched out his hand, and we should have been friends on the spot, but I answered— “Not exactly. I am ignorant, Monsieur, in the knowledge you ascribe to me, but I _sometimes_, not _always_, feel a knowledge of my own.” “What did I mean?” he inquired, sharply. Unable to answer this question in a breath, I evaded it by change of subject. He had now finished his half of the brioche: feeling sure that on so trifling a fragment he could not have satisfied his appetite, as indeed I had not appeased mine, and inhaling the fragrance of baked apples afar from the refectory, I ventured to inquire whether he did not also perceive that agreeable odour. He confessed that he did. I said if he would let me out by the garden-door, and permit me just to run across the court, I would fetch him a plateful; and added that I believed they were excellent, as Goton had a very good method of baking, or rather stewing fruit, putting in a little spice, sugar, and a glass or two of vin blanc—might I go? “Petite gourmande!” said he, smiling, “I have not forgotten how pleased you were with the pâté â la crême I once gave you, and you know very well, at this moment, that to fetch the apples for me will be the same as getting them for yourself. Go, then, but come back quickly.”