“Yes, that’s what I meant, I think.”

“Falling in love is giving someone the power to hurt you....  I suppose it depends on you, or rather on them, if it’s worth it or not.  But how can one say anything of any value about a thing unless one has first clearly defined what that thing is?  And love is like religion, like the vision of truth itself—­it means something different to every man.”

“I thought women were always supposed to love in much the same way,” said Ishmael vaguely—­“better than we do.  They always say so.”

“Oh, it depends on the individual, as always.  Chiefly it depends on whether you’re the sort of person that loves ‘in spite of’ or ’because of.’  If you’re the ‘because of’ kind, all sorts of things, external drawbacks and disappointments in character, put you off.  If you’re the ‘in spite of,’ they don’t.  I think the only difference between men and women is that as a rule men love because of and women in spite of.”

“I’m afraid I should be the ‘because of.’”

“Yes, I think perhaps you would.  If a woman loves ‘in spite of,’ all the little external things that at the beginning might have shocked her only make her care more.”

“Like eating with one’s knife, you mean?”

“Yes, even that.  Or the person having a cold in his head or a spot on the end of his nose!  She notices whatever it happens to be and has a little shock of surprise at finding it makes no difference.  And that makes her feel how strong her love must be; and pouf! it gets stronger than ever.”

“And the underneath things, like finding out little insincerities, little meannesses even?”

“The same plan works there—­if you’re the ‘in spite of’ lover.”

“Tell me,” said Ishmael suddenly, “do you—­does any woman—­have moments when the very word ‘love’ is an insufferable intrusion, when it all seems petty and of no account, a tiresome thing in whose presence it suddenly doesn’t seem possible to breathe?”

“When one is sick of the whole question, and the way life is supposed to be built round it?  Yes; but when a woman feels like that it generally is in reaction from too much of it.  She doesn’t feel it purely academically, so to speak, as a man can.”  Judy’s voice was suddenly very weary.  Her eyes met Ishmael’s, and in that look a comprehension was born between them that was never quite to fail, that was, in its best moments, to mean true intimacy.  Judy blinked at him with her sad monkey-eyes, smiled a little, and held out her hand in farewell.  He took it—­suddenly ejaculated a “Good-night” accompanied by a “Thank you” which he felt, though he could not quite have told why.  He went off down the lane without seeing her back to the cottage, and she stayed awhile, grateful in her turn that meeting him had taken the keen edge off her own problems.  She went in to supper and bed feeling very tired, a tiredness that was in her mind and soul, but that had the pleasantness of a healthy physical exhaustion.