Canon Spratte put his hand impressively on Wroxham’s knee.
“My dear fellow, there’s nothing to understand. They say that women are incomprehensible. They’re nothing of the sort. I’ve never met a woman that I couldn’t understand at a glance.”
“I fancied she’d been crying,” said Wroxham, shyly.
“All women cry when they have nothing better to do. It’s the only inexpensive form of amusement they have.”
Wroxham knocked the ash off his cigarette with peculiar care.
“I asked her to marry me, Canon Spratte.”
“And of course she refused. That was to be expected. No nice girl accepts a man the first time he proposes to her. My dear Harry, the way with women is to insist. Stand no nonsense from them. Treat them kindly, but firmly. Remember that the majority never know their own minds, and between you and me I think the majority haven’t much to know.”
The Canon was no feminist. It was one of his cherished convictions that women should be kept in their place, which, with regard to the lords of creation, was chiefly the background. He felt that the attitude which best became them was one of submission. Like the natural savage, unspoiled by the vice of civilization, he considered that man should hunt, fight, and be handsome, while the weaker sex toiled for the privilege of contemplating his greatness. He had never imparted these theories to Lady Sophia.
“When you want something from a woman insist upon having it,” he added. “Hammer away and in the long run you’ll get it.”
“But Winnie is so different from other girls,” replied Wroxham, unconvinced.