Cruikshank—of whom, if it cannot be said that he knows the woman in his wife, at least knows her queer little habits—passed his cup without amazement for more tea. But I—well, it took my breath away.
“Whatever made you ask that?” I inquired.
She shrugged her shoulders as eloquently as she could, being occupied with Cruikshank’s third cup of tea.
“I don’t know,” she replied—“Who called them elephants, anyhow?”
To this second question, Cruikshank was as ready as if he were at Sunday school.
“Adam,” said he. “Adam named all the beasts and he called them elephants.”
“But why elephants?” asked Bellwattle.
Cruikshank looked at me across the little garden table. There was an appeal in his eyes, as though he would say, “Go on—I’ve answered mine. It’s your turn now. Don’t let her think we don’t know.”
For you must understand that, in their dealings with women, there is a certain freemasonry amongst men. If by nature their sex is debarred from the greatest of all functions, they must at least steal dignity by the assumption of great wisdom. No man may ever admit ignorance to a woman. So long as her questions have nothing to do with instinct, he will answer them, whether or no he tells her the greatest balderdash you ever heard. All men in their vows of masonry must swear to do this. We should be in a sorry way if women did not look up to us for knowledge.