“Then you agree with me that men are not all alike?” “I certainly don’t. Put any one of you before a pretty face and a pair of silly girl’s eyes and he is a perfect idiot.” “My dear Judith,” said I, “I don’t care a hang for a pretty face--except yours.” “Do you really care about mine?” she asked wistfully. “My dear,” said I, dropping on one knee by the sofa, and taking her hand, “I’ve been longing for it for six weeks.” And I counted the weeks on her fingers. This put her in a good humour. Now that I come to think of it, there is something adorably infantile in grown up women. Shall man ever understand them? I have seen babies (not many, I am glad to say) crow with delight at having their toes pulled, with a “this little pig went to market,” and so forth; Judith almost crowed at having the weeks told off on her fingers. Queer! An hour was taken up with the account of her doings in Paris. She had met all the nicest and naughtiest people. She had been courted and flattered. An artist in a slouch hat, baggy corduroy breeches, floppy tie and general 1830 misfit had made love to her on the top of the Eiffel Tower. “And he said,” laughed Judith, “‘_Partons ensemble. Comme on dit en Anglais_--fly with me!’ I remarked that our state when we got to the Champs de Mars would be an effective disguise. He didn’t understand, and it was delicious!” I laughed. “All the same,” I observed, “I can’t see the fun of making jokes which the person to whom you make them doesn’t see the point of.” “Why, that’s your own peculiar form of humour,” she retorted. “I caught the trick from you.” Perhaps she is right. I have noticed that people are slow in their appreciation of my witticisms. I must really be a very dull dog. If she were not fond of me I don’t see how a bright woman like Judith could tolerate my society for half an hour.