“I hadn't observed it,” Henry said, “particularly. Are women so unlike men then?”
“That's quite a question, isn't it. What do you think?”
“I can't think in large sections and masses of people,” Henry replied. “Women are so different one from another. So are men. That's all I can see, when people talk of the sexes.”
“Macchè! You don't say!” said Miss Longfellow, looking at him inquiringly. “Most people always think in large masses of people. They find it easier, more convenient, more picturesque.”
“It is indeed so,” Henry admitted. “But less accurate. Accuracy—do you agree with me?—is of an importance very greatly underestimated by the majority of persons.”
“I guess,” said Miss Longfellow, not interested, “you're quite a clever young man.”
Henry replied truthfully, “Indeed, no,” and at this point they turned a bend in the path and the château was before them in the evening light; an arcaded, balconied, white-washed building, vine-covered and red-roofed, with queer outside staircases and green-shuttered windows, many of which were lit. Certainly old, though restored. A little way from it was a small belfried chapel.
“Charming,” said Henry, removing his eyeglass the better to look. “Amazingly charming.”
A big door stood open and through this they passed into a hall lit by large hanging lamps and full of dogs, or so it seemed to Henry, for on all sides they rose to stare at him, to sniff at his ankles, for the most part with the air of distaste commonly adopted towards Henry by these friends of man.