She took it, laid it open carelessly on her knees, bending the covers far back that it might stay open, and she gave her finger tips a final rub with her handkerchief before she looked at the page.  She paused a bit after she glanced at it, then picked up the book and read:  “’L’homme est par Nature porte a l’inconstance dans l’amour, la femme a la fidelite.  L’amour de l’homme baisse d’une facon sensible a partir de l’instant ou il a obtenu satisfaction:  il semble que toute autre femme ait plus d’attrait que celle qu’il possede.’”

She laid the book down, but she did not look at him.

“Rubbish,” was his remark.

“Yes, I know.  You men always find it so easy to say ‘rubbish’ to all natural truths which you prefer not to discuss.”

“Well, my dear Naomi, it seems to me that if you are to advocate Schopenhauer, you must go the whole length with him.  The fault is in Nature, and you must accept it as inevitable, and not kick against it.”

“I don’t kick against Nature—­as you put it—­I kick against civilization, which makes laws regardless of Nature, which deliberately shuts its eyes to all natural truths in regard to the relations of men to women,—­and is therefore forced to continually wink to avoid confessing its folly.”

“Civilization seems to me to have done the best it could with a very difficult problem.  It has not actually allowed different codes of morals to men and women, and it may have had to wink on that account.  Right there, in your Schopenhauer, you have a primal reason, that is, if you chose to follow your philosopher to the extent of actually believing that Nature has deliberately, from the beginning, protected women against that sin of which so much is made, and to which she has, as deliberately, for economic reasons of her own, tempted men.”

“I do believe it, truly.”

“You are no more charitable toward my sex than most women are.  Yet neither your teacher nor you may be right.  A theoretic arguer like Schopenhauer makes good enough reading for calm minds, but he is bad for an emotional temperament, and, by Jove, Naomi, he was a bad example of his own philosophy.”

“My dear Dick, I am afraid I read Schopenhauer because I thought what he writes long before I ever heard of him.  I read him because did I not find a clear logical mind going the same way my mind will go, I might be troubled with doubts, and afraid that I was going quite wrong.”

“Well, the deuce and all with a woman when she begins to read stuff like that is her inability to generalize.  You women take everything home to yourselves.  You try to deduct conclusions from your own lives which men like Schopenhauer have scanned the centuries for.  The natural course of your life could hardly have provided you with the pessimism with which—­I hope you will pardon my remark, my dear—­you have treated me several times in the past few months.  Chamfort and Schopenhauer did that.  But these are not subjects a man discusses easily with his wife.”