distract him; we must cultivate his finer instincts."

"It doesn't seem to answer," grumbled Madge. "One is always told it is
the artist--the brain worker, the very men who have these fine instincts,
who are the most sexual."

She made a little impatient movement with her hands that was
characteristic of her. "Personally, I like men," she went on. "It is so
splendid the way they enjoy life: just like a dog does, whether it's wet
or fine. We are always blinking up at the clouds and worrying about our
hat. It would be so nice to be able to have friendship with them.

"I don't mean that it's all their fault," she continued. "We do all we
can to attract them--the way we dress. Who was it said that to every
woman every man is a potential lover. We can't get it out of our minds.
It's there even when we don't know it. We will never succeed in
civilizing Nature."

"We won't despair of her," laughed Joan. "She's creeping up, poor lady,
as Whistler said of her. We have passed the phase when everything she
did was right in our childish eyes. Now we dare to criticize her. That
shows we are growing up. She will learn from us, later on. She's a dear
old thing, at heart."

"She's been kind enough to you," replied Madge, somewhat irrelevantly.
There was a note of irritation in her tone. "I suppose you know you are
supremely beautiful. You seem so indifferent to it, I wonder sometimes
if you do."

"I'm not indifferent to it," answered Joan. "I'm reckoning on it to help