“It’s a silly question.”

“It isn’t.  The next time you see a female baby in a perambulator, take off your hat respectfully.”

I am afraid I am clumsy at repartee.

“And the next time you engage a cook, my dear Judith,” said I, “send for a mere man.”

She coloured up.  I dissolved myself in apologies.  Her wounded susceptibilities required careful healing.  The situation was somewhat odd.  She had not scrupled to attack the innermost weaknesses of my character, and yet when I retaliated by a hit at externals, she was deeply hurt, and made me feel a ruffianly blackguard.  I really think if Lisette had pinned up that curtain I should have learned something more about female human nature.  But Judith is the only woman I have known intimately all my life long, and sometimes I wonder whether I shall ever know her.  I told her so once.  She answered:  “If you loved me you would know me.”  Very likely she was right.  Honestly speaking, I don’t love Judith.  I am accustomed to her.  She is a lady, born and bred.  She is an educated woman and takes quite an intelligent interest in the Renaissance.  Indeed she has a subtler appreciation of the Venetian School of Painting than I have.  She first opened my eyes, in Italy, to the beauties, as a gorgeous colourist, of Palma Vecchio in his second or Giorgionesque manner.  She is in every way a sympathetic and entertaining companion.  Going deeper, to the roots of human instinct, I find she represents to me—­so chance has willed it—­the ewige weibliche which must complement masculinity in order to produce normal existence.  But as for the “zieht uns hinan”—­no.  It would not attract me hence—­out of my sphere.  I could commit an immortal folly for no woman who ever made this planet more lustrous to its Bruderspharen.

I don’t understand Judith.  It doesn’t very greatly matter.  Many things I don’t understand, the spiritual attitude towards himself, for example, of the intelligent juggler who expends his life’s energies in balancing a cue and three billiard-balls on the tip of his nose.  But I know that Judith understands me, and therein lies the advantage I gain from our intimacy.  She gauges, to an absurdly subtle degree, the depth of my affection.  She is really an incomparable woman.  So many insist upon predilection masquerading as consuming passion.  There is nothing theatrical about Judith.

Yet to-day she appeared a little touchy, moody, unsettled.  She broke another pleasant spell of fireside silence, that followed expiation of my offence, by suddenly calling my name.

“Yes?” said I, inquiringly.

“I want to tell you something.  Please promise me you won’t be vexed.”

“My dear Judith,” said I, “my great and imperial namesake, in whose meditations I have always found ineffable comfort, tells me this:  ’If anything external vexes you, take notice that it is not the thing which disturbs you, but your notion about it, which notion you may dismiss at once, if you please!’ So I promise to dismiss all my notions of your disturbing communication and not to be vexed.”