eir own nature and their own sensations. But they
know badly, they know in a wrong way. That is all we obtain by our
careful education. . . ."

"Sir," suddenly said Joseph Boutourle, the High Treasurer of Alca,
"believe me, there are innocent girls, perfectly innocent girls, and it
is a great pity. I have known three. They married, and the result was
tragical."

"I have noticed," Professor Haddock went on, "that Europeans in general
and Penguins in particular occupy themselves, after sport and motoring,
with nothing so much as with love. It is giving a great deal of
importance to a matter that has very little weight."

"Then, Professor," exclaimed Madame Cremeur in a choking voice, "when
a woman has completely surrendered herself to you, you think it is a
matter of no importance?"

"No, Madame; it can have its importance," answered Professor Haddock,
"but it is necessary to examine if when she surrenders herself to us she
offers us a delicious fruit-garden or a plot of thistles and dandelions.
And then, do we not misuse words? In love, a woman lends herself rather
than gives herself. Look at the pretty Madame Pensee. . . ."

"She is my mother," said a tall, fair young man.

"Sir, I have the greatest respect for her," replied Professor Haddock;
"do not be afraid that I intend to say anything in the least offensive
about her. But allow me to tell you that, as a rule, the opinions of
sons about their mothers are not to be relied on. They do not bear
enough in mind that a mother is a mother only because she loved, and
that she can still love. That, however, is the case, and it would be
deplorable were it otherwise. I have noticed, on the contrary, that
daughters do not deceive themselves about their mothers' faculty for
loving or about the use they make of it; they are rivals; they have
their eyes upon them."

The insupportable Professor spoke a great deal longer, adding
indecorum to awkwardness, and impertinence to incivility, accumulating
incongruities, despising what is respectable, respecting what is
despicable; but no one listened to him further.

During this time in a room that was simple without grace, a room sad
for the want of love, a room which, like all young girls' rooms, had
something of the cold atmosphere of a place of waiting about it, Eveline
Clarence turned over the pages of club annuals and prospectuses of
charities in order to obtain from them some acquaintance with society.
Being convinced tha