of art between the stewpans.

I am really glad I did not bring Samuel the footman with me. He could
not have waited on me better than Jeanne, and at any rate I am free from
his eyes, which, in spite of all their respectful looks, always reminded
me of a fly-paper full of dead and dying flies.

Jeanne's look has a something gliding and subtle about it that keeps me
company like a witty conversation. It is really on her account that I
dress myself well. But I cannot converse with her. I should not like to
try, and then to be disillusioned.

Men have often assured me that I was the only woman they could talk with
as though I were one of themselves. Personally I never feel at one with
menkind. I only understand and admire my own sex.

In reality I think there is more difference between a man and a woman
than between an inert stone and a growing plant. I say this ... I
who ...

* * * * *

What business is it of mine? We were not really friends. The fact of her
having confided in me makes no demands on my feelings. If this thing had
happened five years ago, I should have taken it as a rather welcome
sensation--nothing more. Or had I read in the paper "On the--inst., of
heart disease, or typhoid fever," my peace of mind would not have been
disturbed for an hour.

I have purposely refrained from reading the papers lately. Chancing to