“What does he think of the portrait?”
“He hasn't seen it yet. My people are much pleased with the likeness. I find it flattering.”
“Indeed!” said Sara thoughtfully. “Did you give him many sittings?”
“He knows my face pretty well. We are acquaintances of some years' standing. Papa has a high opinion of him.”
“And you?”
“I am no judge. Women can know so little about men.”
“I don't agree with you there. They are far more conventional than we are. They are trained in batches, thousands are of one pattern—especially in society. But each woman has an individual bringing-up. She is influenced by a foreign governess, or her mother, or her nurse. This must give every girl peculiar personal views of everything. That is why men find us hard to understand. We don't understand each other; we suspect each other: we have no sense of comradeship.”
“Perhaps you are right,” said Agnes, rather sadly. “Yet our troubles all seem to arise from the fact that we cannot manage men. It matters very little really whether we can manage women. With women, one need only be natural, straightforward, and unselfish. You can't come to grief that way. But with men, it is almost impossible to be quite natural. As for being straightforward, don't they misconstrue our words continually? And when one tries to be unselfish, they accuse one of hardness, coldness, and everything most contrary to one's feelings. Of course,” she added quickly, “I speak from observation. I have nothing to complain of myself.”
“Of course not. Neither have I. I have grown up with most of my men friends. I had no mother, and I exhausted dozens of governesses and masters, I am sure I was troublesome, but I had an instinctive horror of becoming narrow-minded and getting into a groove. My English relations bored me. My foreign ones made my dear papa jealous and uncomfortable.”
“Then you liked them?” said Agnes at once.