long, and sometimes I wonder whether I shall ever know her. I
told her so once. She answered: "If you loved me you would know
me." Very likely she was right. Honestly speaking, I don't love
Judith. I am accustomed to her. She is a lady, born and bred.
She is an educated woman and takes quite an intelligent interest
in the Renaissance. Indeed she has a subtler appreciation of the
Venetian School of Painting than I have. She first opened my
eyes, in Italy, to the beauties, as a gorgeous colourist, of
Palma Vecchio in his second or Giorgionesque manner. She is in
every way a sympathetic and entertaining companion. Going
deeper, to the roots of human instinct, I find she represents to
me--so chance has willed it--the _ewige weibliche_ which must
complement masculinity in order to produce normal existence. But
as for the "_zieht uns hinan_"--no. It would not attract me
hence--out of my sphere. I could commit an immortal folly for no
woman who ever made this planet more lustrous to its
Bruderspharen.

I don't understand Judith. It doesn't very greatly matter. Many
things I don't understand, the spiritual attitude towards
himself, for example, of the intelligent juggler who expends his
life's energies in balancing a cue and three billiard-balls on
the tip of his nose. But I know that Judith understands me, and
therein lies the advantage I gain from our intimacy. She gauges,
to an absurdly subtle degree, the depth of my affection. She is
really an incomparable woman. So many insist upon predilection
masquerading as consuming passion. There is nothing theatrical
about Judith.

Yet to-day she appeared a little touchy, moody, unsettled. She