Mrs. Shattuck examined her daintily polished nails, rubbed them
carefully on the palm of her hand, as women have a trick of doing, and
then polished them on her lace handkerchief, before she said, "Yes, it
is a pity that we are not all like that,--a very great pity--for our
own sakes. Yet, unluckily, some of us _will_ think."

"But the thinking woman is so rarely logical, so unable to take life
impersonally, that Schopenhauer does her no good. He only fills her
mind with errors, mistrust, unhappiness."

"You men always argue that way with women--as if life were not the
same for us as for you. Pass me the book. I wager that I can open it
at random, and that you cannot deny the truth of the first sentence I
read."

He passed her the book.

She took it, laid it open carelessly on her knees, bending the covers
far back that it might stay open, and she gave her finger tips a final
rub with her handkerchief before she looked at the page. She paused a
bit after she glanced at it, then picked up the book and read:
"'_L'homme est par Nature porté à l'inconstance dans l'amour, la femme
à la fidelité. L'amour de l'homme baisse d'une façon sensible à partir
de l'instant où il a obtenu satisfaction: il semble que toute autre
femme ait plus d'attrait que celle qu'il possède._'"

She laid the book down, but she did not look at him.

"Rubbish," was his remark.