“There’s not much reservation about our little friend Carmen,” said Mr. Linton. “She tells you her philosophy in her first moment before you.”
He hummed the habanera.
“There you are: Misteroso e l’amore—that’s the philosophy of your pretty savage, Herbert.”
“Yes,” said Herbert; “it’s that philosophy which consists in an absence of philosophy—not the worst kind, either, it seems to me. It’s the philosophy of impulse.”
“I thought that the aim of all philosophy was to check every impulse,” said Ella.
“So it is; that’s why women do not make good philosophers,” said her husband.
“Or, for that matter, good mothers of philosophers,” said Herbert.
“That’s rather a hard saying, isn’t it?” said the other man.
“No,” said his wife; “it’s as transparent as air.”
“London air in November?” suggested her husband.