It was a chapter of generalization at the end of the book that she was
trying to fathom.

_"Women have no inhibitions: their pretended inhibitions serve exactly
the same purpose as the civet-cat's scent of musk, the peacock's
gorgeous tail, the glow-worm's lamp. A woman's inhibitions are
invitations. Women do not exist--per se. They are merely the vehicles of
existence. If they fail to reproduce their kind, they have failed in
their purpose; they are unconsciously ruled by the philoprogenitive
passion; it is their raison d'etre, for it they are fed, clothed,
trained, bred. Existing for the race, they enjoy existence merely in the
preliminary canter. Small brained, short-visioned, they lose sight
of the race and desire the preliminary canter, with its excitements and
promises, to continue indefinitely."_

The word "philoprogenitive" and the French phrase stopped her.

"Why on earth I didn't bring a dictionary," she said, "passes my
comprehension! I'll write the words down and ask someone."

A young man was sitting on the deck a few yards away, his back against a
capstan. He looked supremely uncomfortable trying to read a little
blue-backed book.

Marcella looked at Louis's chair empty beside her.

"Wouldn't you like to sit on this chair?" she said, and the young man
looked up startled.