Here they sat them down, she determined to do the right by him, and thinking it an easy matter; he utterly misunderstanding her.  Without a smile, they set to work at their reading.  They read for an hour or more, maintaining the utmost gravity, when, as luck would have it, the word “friendship” occurred in a passage of the book.  Claudius paused a moment, his broad hand laid flat on the open page.

“That is one of the most interesting and one of the most singularly misunderstood words in all languages,” he said.

“What word?” inquired Margaret, looking up from her work, to which she had attentively applied herself while he was reading.

“Friendship.”

“Will you please define what it means?” said she.

“I can define what I myself mean by it, or rather what I think I mean by it.  I can define what a dozen writers have meant by it.  But I cannot tell what it really means, still less what it may ultimately come to mean.”

“You will probably be best able to explain what you mean by it yourself,” answered Margaret rather coldly.  “Will you please begin?”

“It seems to me,” Claudius began, “that the difficulty lies in the contradiction between the theory and the fact.  Of course, as in all such cases, the theory loses the battle, and we are left groping for an explanation of the fact which we do not understand.  Perhaps that is a little vague?” Claudius paused.

“A little vague—­yes,” said she.

“I will try and put it more clearly.  First take the fact.  No one will deny that there have occasionally in the world’s history existed friendships which have stood every test and which have lasted to the very end.  Such attachments have been always affairs of the heart, even between man and man.  I do not think you can name an instance of a lasting friendship on a purely intellectual basis.  True friendship implies the absence of envy, and the vanity of even the meanest intellect is far too great to admit of such a condition out of pure thought-sympathy.”

“I do not see any contradiction, even admitting your last remark, which is cynical enough.”  Margaret spoke indifferently, as making a mere criticism.

“But I believe most people connect the idea of friendship, beyond ordinary liking, with intellectual sympathy.  They suppose, for instance, that a man may love a woman wholly and entirely with the best kind of love, and may have at the same time a friend with whom he is in entire sympathy.”

“And why not?” she asked.

“Simply because he cannot serve two masters.  If he is in entire sympathy with more than one individual he must sometimes not only contradict himself, as he would rightly do for one or the other alone, but he must also contradict one in favour of the other in case they disagree.  In such a case he is no longer in entire sympathy with both, and either his love or his friendship must be imperfect.”  Claudius looked at the Countess to see what impression he had made.  She did not return his glance.