“The people,” she answered slowly.
“We will talk of the women.”
“Yes,” she said.
“About you, for you are a woman.”
“I wish I were not.”
“Why?”
“Because—because men have so much the best of it. . . . Do men like independent women? No, men like them clinging. What does a clinging woman do?”
“I don’t take the faintest interest in inscrutable women,” he replied. “Come out and sit among the pine trees and think of ‘Solitude’ and the lake—”
“And forget everything except now which is ours?” she said.
“Come then—come.”