“Men and women are very different, in some respects,” calmly responded Gilbert, “but there have been quite strong attachments between them.”
“True,” rejoined Mrs. Farrell with burlesque thoughtfulness. “But in this case they’re both men.”
“Nothing escapes you, Mrs. Farrell,” said Gilbert, bowing his head.
“You praise me more than I deserve. I didn’t take all your meaning. One of you is so mightily, so heroically manly, that the other necessarily womanizes in comparison. Isn’t that it? But which is which?”
“Modesty forbids me to claim either transcendent distinction.”
“Oh, I know! Mr. Easton is your ideal man. But I should want my ideal man to do something in the world, to devote himself to some one great object. That’s what I should do, if I were a man.”
“Of course. How do you know Easton doesn’t?”
“I merely have his word for it.”
Gilbert looked surprised and perplexed. At length he said, rather dryly: “I congratulate you on getting Easton to talk about himself. Not many people have succeeded.”
“Oh, is he so reticent?” asked Mrs. Farrell. “I didn’t find him so. He was quite free in mentioning his little pursuits, as he called it.”