There were many keynotes in the conversation. If one sat down with a book in the reading-room he would abandon it for the better display of human nature in the crowd around him. There were some twoscore women all talking at the same time, each drenching the other in the steady flow of her conversational hose. The plan of it all seemed to be very generous--everybody giving and nobody receiving anything. I used to think that among women talk was for display or relief, and whispering for the transfer of intelligence. Since I got married I know better: women have a sixth sense by which they can acquire knowledge without listening in a talk-fest. They miss nothing. It was interesting to observe how the edges of the conversations impinged upon one another, like the circles made by a handful of pebbles flung from a bridge into water. Now and then some strong-voiced lady dropped a rock into the pool, and the spatter went to both shores. The spray advertised the thought-trusts of the women: “I felt so sorry for poor Mabel! There wasn't a young man in the party.” “It was a capital operation, but I pulled through.” “Yes, I've wanted to go to Italy ever since I saw 'Romeo and Juliet.' Those Italians are wonderful lovers.” “It was so ridiculous to be throwing her at his head, and she with a weak heart and only one lung!” “I don't know how I spend it, but somehow it goes.” “Oh, they have been abroad, but anybody can do that these days.” “Poor man! I feel sorry for him--she's terribly extravagant.” “We don't see much of our home these days.” “My twentieth trip across the ocean.” “Our children are in boarding-schools, and my husband is living at his club.” I wanted to smoke and excused myself from Betsey and went out on the deck, now more than half deserted, and stood looking off at the night. Family history was pouring out of the state-room windows, and I could not help hearing it. Grandma, slightly deaf, was saying to her daughter: “Lizzie must be more careful when those young men come to the door. This morning she wasn't half dressed when she opened it.” “Oh yes, she was.” “No, she wasn't; I took particular notice. And every morning she wets her hair in my perfumery. Then, sadly, It's almost gone.” I knew enough about the sins of Lizzie, and moved on and took a new stand. An elderly lumber merchant from Michigan was saying to his companion in a loud voice: “Yes, I retired ten years ago. I am studying the history of the world--all about the life of the world, especially the life of the ancients.” I moved on to escape a comparison of the careers of Alexander and Napoleon, and settled down in a dusky corner near which a lady was giving an account of the surgical operations which had been performed upon her. So the conversation, which had begun at daybreak, went on into the night. It was all very human--very American.