udith," said I, "send for
a mere man."

She coloured up. I dissolved myself in apologies. Her wounded
susceptibilities required careful healing. The situation was somewhat
odd. She had not scrupled to attack the innermost weaknesses of my
character, and yet when I retaliated by a hit at externals, she was
deeply hurt, and made me feel a ruffianly blackguard. I really think if
Lisette had pinned up that curtain I should have learned something more
about female human nature. But Judith is the only woman I have known
intimately all my life 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 broke
another pleasant spell of fireside silence, that followed expiation of
my offence, by suddenly calling my name.

"Yes?" said I, inquiringly.

"I want to tell you something. Please promise me you won't be vexed."

"My dear Judith," said I, "my great