"You're rather an uncanny person," she said at last, slowly. "You understand—too much."
"Tout comprendre—c'est tout pardonner," quoted Mallory gently.
Nan fenced.
"And do I need pardon?" she asked.
"Yes," he answered simply, "You're not the woman God meant you to be.
You're too critical, too cold—without passion."
"And I a musician?"—incredulously.
"Oh, it's in your music right enough. The artist in you has it. But the woman—so far, no. You're too introspective to surrender blindly. Artiste, analyst, critic first—only woman when those other three are satisfied."
Nan nodded.
"Yes," she said slowly. "I believe that's true."
"I think it is," he affirmed quietly. "And because men are what they are, and you are you, it's quite probable you'll fail to achieve the triumph of your womanhood." He paused, then added: "You're not one of those who would count the world well lost for love, you know—except on the impulse of an imaginative moment."