"But you haven't answered my question," persisted Dorothy. "Why is it that we women love men?"
Mrs. West was not conscious of the quaint phrasing of her daughter's remark.
"We don't love men, Dorothy," she cried, "we love a man, the right man."
"But," persisted Dorothy, "why do we do it? They're not pretty and they're not very interesting," she emphasised the "very," "and only a few of them are clever. Sometimes in the Tube coming home I see a girl and a man holding hands. What is it that makes them want to hold hands?"
"It's natural to fall in love," said Mrs. West gently.
"But that's not falling in love," protested Dorothy scornfully. "If I fell in love with a man I shouldn't want to hold his hand in a train. I should hate him if he expected it."
"It's a question of class," said Mrs. West a little primly.
"Oh! mother, what an awful snob you are," cried Dorothy, jumping up and going round and giving her mother a hug. "Let's go into the drawing-room and be comfy and have a chat."
When they were seated, Mrs. West in an armchair and Dorothy on a stool at her feet, the girl continued her interrogations. "Now suppose," she continued, "I were to fall in love with a man who was ugly, ill-mannered, badly dressed, with very little to say for himself. Why should I do it?" Dorothy looked challengingly up at her mother.
"But you wouldn't, dear," said Mrs. West with gentle conviction.