The idea implies a right of veto which is repugnant to me.  Of all the hateful attitudes towards a woman in which a decent man can view himself that of the Turkish bashaw is the most detestable.  Women seldom give men credit for this distaste.

I kissed the white hand of Judith that touched my wrist, and told her not to doubt my understanding.  She cried a little.

“I don’t make your path rougher, Judith?” I whispered.

She checked her tears and her eyes brightened wonderfully.

“You?  You do nothing but smooth it and level it.”

“Like a steam-roller,” said I.

She laughed, sprang to her feet, and carried me off gaily to the kitchen to help her get the tea ready.  My assistance consisted in lighting the gas-stove beneath a waterless kettle.  After that I sprawled against the dresser and, with my heart in my mouth, watched her cut thin bread-and-butter in a woman’s deliciously clumsy way.  Once, as the bright blade went perilously near her palm, I drew in my breath.

“A man would never dream of doing it like that!” I cried, in rebuke.

She calmly dropped the wafer on to the plate and handed me the knife and loaf.

“Do it your way,” she said, with a smile of mock humility.

I did it my way, and cut my finger.

“The devil’s in the knife!” I cried.  “But that’s the right way.”

Judith said nothing, but bound up my wound, and, like the well-conducted person of the ballad, went on cutting bread-and-butter.  Her smile, however, was provoking.

“And all this time,” I said, half an hour later, “you haven’t told me where you are going.”

“Paris.  To stay with Delphine Carrere.”

“I thought you said you wanted solitude.”

I have met Delphine Carrere -brave femme if ever there was one, and the loyalest soul in the world, the only one of Judith’s early women friends who has totally ignored the fact of the Sacred Cap of Good Repute having been thrown over the windmills (indeed who knows whether dear, golden-hearted Delphine herself could conscientiously write the magic initials S.C.G.R. after her name?); but Delphine has never struck me as a person in whose dwelling one could find conventual seclusion.  Judith, however, explained.

“Delphine will be painting all day, and dissipating all night.  I can’t possibly disturb her in her studio, for she has to work tremendously hard—­and I’m decidedly not going to dissipate with her.  So I shall have my days and nights to my sequestered and meditative self.”