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For if women are
not rational they are indeed acute. Even Mrs. Fyne was acute. The good
woman was making up to her husband's chess-player simply because she had
scented in him that small portion of 'femininity,' that drop of superior
essence of which I am myself aware; which, I gratefully acknowledge, has
saved me from one or two misadventures in my life either ridiculous or
lamentable, I am not very certain which. It matters very little. Anyhow
misadventures. Observe that I say 'femininity,' a privilege--not
'feminism,' an attitude. I am not a feminist. It was Fyne who on
certain solemn grounds had adopted that mental attitude; but it was
enough to glance at him sitting on one side, to see that he was purely
masculine to his finger-tips, masculine solidly, densely,
amusingly,--hopelessly.
I did glance at him. You don't get your sagacity recognized by a man's
wife without feeling the propriety and even the need to glance at the man
now and again. So I glanced at him. Very masculine. So much so that
"hopelessly" was not the last word of it. He was helpless.


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