And in that one sentence I received a clearer view into the subtle reasoning of a woman's intuition; for reasoning there is in it, an unconscious reasoning from impressions rather than facts, whereby she needs no proof and shuns the sharp edges of a fact lest they should destroy the sensitive surface of her mind.
"So you go straight to Clarissa?" said I.
"It's never any good saying anything to a man," she answered. "I could hear in your voice, when you said you were going back to London, that you had made up your mind. Talking won't do any good to a man when he's got as far as that. I went to Clarissa."
"Where you found that all your suppositions had been wrong. You found that I had never met her before. You found that I am not in love with her. You found that she hates the very sight of me. Weren't you surprised?"
"Not a bit," said she.
Now what is the good of one illuminating sentence against an answer so complex and incomprehensible as this? As surely as a woman gives you the key to her nature, so surely will you find the barrel of it stuffed with wax. She had learnt that she was wrong on every point and she was not surprised.
"You expected, then, to have all your beliefs dashed to the ground?" I said. "You knew, when you thought I was in love, that you would find you were mistaken?"
"No, I didn't."
"Then why no surprise to find you were—all at sea?"
"But I didn't find that. I didn't find I was mistaken. I found I was right. One thing did surprise me—I must admit that. I thought you must have met her before. But I quite expected to find that you were in love with her and that she hated you. So why should I be surprised?"