“Oh, you needn’t get funny,” she retorted. “It’s something to know that you don’t know anything. . . . I mean. . . . What do I mean? I mean I don’t know anything in my head. I know lots of things by intuition. I think I know more than you do, that way. . . .”
“Not a doubt of it,” said Wilfred.
“But the voice of intuition is dumb,” Elaine went on. “I act as I act without knowing why. There is no residue. Intuition prompts you how to act at the moment; but it doesn’t help you to lay out a course.”
How exactly, sometimes, unconscious people can convey what is in their minds! thought Wilfred enviously. “What about books?” he suggested.
“Books! Pshaw! Books are a kind of dope!” said Elaine.
“You read only novels—and those, not the best.”
“I do read the best!” she said indignantly.
“I don’t mean the latest best,” said Wilfred.
“I read poetry, too. . . . But poetry just lifts you up—and lets you drop again. Oh, I suppose it’s my fault. Really serious books bore me.”
“There are good novels,” said Wilfred.