"'Again, it's the fashion now to say that women are more practical and
less idealistic than men, also that they have considerable organising
ability but no sense of honour'--query, what is meant by masculine term,
honour?--what corresponds to it in your sex? Eh?"
Attacking her staircase once more, Rachel again neglected this
opportunity of revealing the secrets of her sex. She had, indeed,
advanced so far in the pursuit of wisdom that she allowed these secrets
to rest undisturbed; it seemed to be reserved for a later generation to
discuss them philosophically.
Crashing down a final chord with her left hand, she exclaimed at last,
swinging round upon him:
"No, Terence, it's no good; here am I, the best musician in South
America, not to speak of Europe and Asia, and I can't play a note
because of you in the room interrupting me every other second."
"You don't seem to realise that that's what I've been aiming at for
the last half-hour," he remarked. "I've no objection to nice simple
tunes--indeed, I find them very helpful to my literary composition, but
that kind of thing is merely like an unfortunate old dog going round on
its hind legs in the rain."
He began turning over the little sheets of note-paper which were
scattered on the table, conveying the congratulations of their friends.
"'--all possible wishes for all possible happiness,'" he read; "correct,
but not very vivid, are they?"
"They're sheer nonsense!" Rachel exclaimed.
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