ain; but how he could include two
such different people as Mrs. Peters and his adored in the same
condemnation is hard to understand. The words of the sentence, it is
true, were identical; but the inflection hinted at a great gulf fixed
between the two offenders. Possibly they were charged with different
offenses.

"They're all alike...." Are they? Does the same essential lurk beneath
the surface? Supposing we could dissect Mrs. Peters, Alicia, Mizzi,
Beatrice Blair, and a thousand Ermyntrudes or Sallies, should we find
the same germ of woman? Take Lionel's evidence, if it were available.
You might safely assert that to him Beatrice was different from and
superior to any other woman you could produce. Henry Brown would as
stoutly hold the same of his anonymous sweetheart. Mr. Peters and Mr.
Hedderwick we may hope would take an identical line, or at least they
would have once. But these are, or have been, lovers, the blindest of
mortals, and their evidence is too partial to be trustworthy. A cynic
like Pope would tell you that every woman is at heart a rake, and might
find a score of others to support him. A Shaw might produce a monster
like Ann Whitfield and brazenly say she was typical. A Chesterton would
talk of women being sublime as individuals but horrible in a herd. A son
might say that his mother was perfect, but he, too, would be partial.
What is the truth about woman? Only a woman can say, and she would find
it hard to take a detached view. Probably truth was partly expressed by
the odd-job man in words--wholly expressed by his words and inflection.
They are human and feminine if you probe deep enough, but there are
variations, unimagined harmonies and discords for the seeker. "They're
all alike"--with a difference, and no man can learn the whole truth from
a text-book. The text-book can give him elementary rules which may serve
him well, but he must be prepared to find plenty of exceptions. The
student, however, need not fear monotony.

But while we have been indulging in cheap philosophy Mr. Brown's
sweetheart has got well down the road, following at a considerable
distance the footsteps of Lionel. Evidently she is in a good humor with
the world, for she hums an air that has a sprightly sound as of the
boulevards or cabarets, and she stops to pick a wild rose. She is
smiling at her thoughts--possibly at the lamentable lack of self-control
exhibited by her lover, possibly at the remembrance of the grass still