"Not Marcia. If it was ninety-nine in a hundred, I could tell you right off. Some of them make damned good wives—better sometimes for being here. With the kind of men who really understand what life is—and with the kind who don't mind because they don't understand anything at all. I like to see those girls get married. Lots more make swell mistresses for men who married hunks of flint. I could go calling at so many swank addresses that your head would swim. And sometimes I do. There are worse places to look for a wife than good bagnios. Any high-society party, for instance. Women's colleges, too, I suspect. Most country clubs. The dud percentage—the lack of warmth—runs higher there—"
"Not to mention know-how."
She sighed—and then chuckled. "Isn't it crazy? Something that should be given more loving practice than music—something that needs extra experience and skill for civilized people. They think you can learn on one bridal night! Or from a book! A girl it would take a genius of sex to seduce satisfactorily marries a bright young college boy in the chopsticks class—and what have you got? The American home. Did you ever—" the question—indeed, the entire subject—seemed to have roused her—"ever once have an affair with a plain American wife who was any good? Somebody else's, I mean?"
"Once."
"Once! And how many—?"
"Look, Hattie. I came to cross-question you—"
She thought awhile, when she saw I wouldn't reply—looking out at the city and detesting it. "I've had lots of men bring their wives right here—to look and learn."
"How many?" I grinned.
"God knows! I'm an old madam, Phil. But many a snooty female has lost her inhibitions in my parlors—and gained a little knowledge that went into making a happy home for some guy. The more people say physical sex is unimportant—the more it is likely to become the only thing that is important for them. And they don't realize."
"I know."