Beverly. He knows, I suppose, that you do not mind it—that you are the more flattered the more he admires the entire sex.
Mrs. M. Of course I do not mind it: the only thing is—
Philip. Well, what is the only thing, Jenny?
Beverly. You remember, Cousin Jenny, I was talking the other day about the perversity of your sex. You either cannot or will not understand your husbands: they hide nothing, extenuate nothing, yet you fail to grasp the idea of that side of their minds which is at once the best and the most dangerous. If Philip did not regard all women with interest, and some with particular interest, he could not have had it in his head to be half so much in love with you as he is.
Philip. That is true, Frank—so true that we won't ask how you found it out.
Miss A. You men always stand by each other so faithfully! Now, I have observed these traits among my married friends: the husbands invariably give a half sigh at the sight of a beautiful girl, implying, "Oh, if I were not a married man!" while the wives, on meeting a man who attracts admiration, as uniformly believe that, let him be ever so handsome, clever or fascinating, he cannot compare with their own particular John.
Mrs. M. That is true, Ethel; and it shows how much more faithful women are than men.
Philip. Now, Jenny, that is nonsense.
Beverly. Oh, I dare say there is a soupçon of truth in it. But I think I could give wives a recipe for keeping their husbands' affections, which, unpopular although it might be, would yet prove salutary.
Miss A. Give it by all means, Mr. Beverly. Anything so beneficial would naturally be popular.