“Yes?” There was the slightest inflection of doubt in her voice as she put the query.
“Yes? Certainly, yes! Very much yes! A woman alone in the world occupies a perplexing and awkward position,—people don’t know what to make of her;—she is an anomaly,—neither fish, flesh, fowl, nor good red herring. Her solitude implies that she has either left some man or been left by him—there’s no alternative—not in the opinion of society.”
“Poor society!” she said. “Its opinion is always very stupid and erroneous—not worth considering. I have heard you say so often.”
“True!” He stroked his moustache thoughtfully with one hand, holding his pipe in the other and gazing at it as though it were a long way off. “But a literary man—a scholar—may say and may think things which do not meet with general acceptance. He can defy convention,—a woman cannot. Now, suppose you are left alone in the world, have you ever thought what you are going to do with yourself?”
She looked startled—the colour rushed to her face, then ebbed away, leaving her very pale.
“You mean—if Dad should die,” she said, in a low, sad tone. “No—I have never thought—I do not want to think—”
“So like a woman!” declared the Philosopher, almost triumphantly. “Doesn’t want to think! Of course not! But you should think! You should always be ready for any event—any disagreeable emergency—”
“Are you?” she asked.
He was for a moment taken a little aback.
“I—I think so,” he answered, slowly. “I generally prepare my way to a goal of some sort and foresee possible obstacles—”