"Women have no natural sense of truth—they only rise to it through sublime effort,"—
"And men?"
"It is ingrained in them, they only sink from it to cover their natural instincts of infidelity."
His voice was contemplative now—.
"How we lie to the little darlings, Nicholas! How we tell them we have no time to write—when of course we have always time if we really want to—we never are at a loss for the moments before the creatures are a secure possession!"
"The whole thing gets back to the hunting instinct, my dear George—I can't see that one can be blamed for it—."
"I am not blaming, I am merely analysing. Have you remarked that when a man feels perfectly secure about the woman he will give his hours of duty to his country, his hours of leisure to his friends who flatter him, and the crumbs snatched from either to the poor lady of his heart! But if she excites his senses, and remains problematic, he will skimp his duty, neglect his friends, and snatch even hours from sleep to spend them in her company!"
"You don't think then that there is something higher and beyond all this in love, George?—something which you and I have never come across perhaps?"
"If one met a woman who was all man in mind, all woman in body, and all child in soul—it is possible—but where are these phoenixes to be discovered, my son?—It is wiser not to dissatisfy oneself by thinking of them—but just go on accepting that which is always accorded to the very rich!—By the way, I saw Suzette la Blonde dining last night with old Solly Jesse—Monsieur le Comte Jessé!—She had a new string of pearls on and was stroking his fat hand, while her lips curled with love—I thought—??"
I lay back in my chair and laughed and laughed—And I had imagined that Suzette really felt for me, and would grieve for at least a week or two—but I am replaced in four days—!