Mrs. Woollffe gives him a quick glance and is silent.
"I've had a troop of women here," she says presently. "Glad you didn't come in the midst of their chatter. My, they'll be after you like flies after molasses this season, Keith! Take care you aren't married in spite of yourself."
"Married?" his voice rings out with angry energy; "not if I know it. I hate women."
"Hate 'em?—that's queer," remarks Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe. "Something's wrong with you, then. Boys at your age aren't women-haters for nothing."
"I mean, of course, those husband-hunting creatures," says Keith apologetically. "Why can't they let a fellow alone, I wonder?"
"Can't say, I'm sure, unless it's just their malice drives 'em on one against the other, and each tries to be foremost with the traps and gins. When a man's got money, I suppose they think it ain't right unless he shares it with a female. And there's such an almighty lot of women in Great Britain. Nice enough, too, some of 'em; I like 'em better'n Amurcans. They've a real good time of it out here, too. When we get married, we're shelved—done for. We let the young 'uns have their time; but, lor' bless me, here the married women seem to have the best of the fun, and are as skittish as colts, even when they're forty."
"Yes, that's so," answered Keith. "In these days married women—so long as they're pretty—command more admiration and attention than the girls. The fact of being appropriated seems to lend them a greater charm. Perhaps, though, men think they're safer. The mothers make such dead running, you know, and if you dance twice with a girl, suspect 'intentions.'"
"It's bad, though," says Mrs. Woollffe, shaking her head. "Bad for Society—bad for men—bad for the girls, too. They'll marry the first man who asks them, because they think they'll have more real freedom afterwards. But what sort of wives and mothers will they make?"
"Those are secondary points of consideration"—sneers Keith, and his face looks hard and almost cruel now, as the flames leap up and frame it in their sudden brightness. "Old-fashioned ideas like truth and constancy, and all that."
"Come, I can't have you getting cynical," says his friend good-humouredly. "You're too young, and I hate to hear young fellows like yourself railing against women. It don't seem right, somehow. What do you know of them? They're mighty queer creatures, and would puzzle the wisest man; but all the same, they're not all downright bad, and you mustn't judge the whole bale from a poor sample."