“It’s more like a woman who isn’t attractive to men.”
“On the contrary,” said I. “You speak like a woman accustomed to deal with men according to her own good pleasure.”
“How shrewd that is!” said she, with an admiring glance. “How shrewd you are! That’s what I miss in other men—in these men over here who have so much that I admire. But they—well, they give me the feeling that they are superficial. Do you think I am superficial?”
“How could I?” said I.
“That’s an evasion,” laughed she. “You do think so. And perhaps I am. A woman ought to be. A man looks after the serious side of life. The woman’s side is the lighter and graceful side—don’t you think so?”
“That sounds plausible,” said I.
“But I grow tired of superficial men. They give me the feeling that—well, that they couldn’t be relied on. And you are reliable, Godfrey. I feel about you that no matter what happened you’d be equal to it. And that’s why I don’t want to give you up.”
I sat with my eyes down, as if I were listening and reflecting.
“Since you’ve been over here long enough to—to broaden a little— You don’t mind my saying you’ve broadened?”
“It’s true,” said I.