nd to him.

On every other subject she was perfectly sane. When we were left alone
together she said: "The worst of it is that I know my 'madness' will
only be temporary. It is a malady incident to my age. One day it will
pass away. One day I shall have got through the inevitable phase. But
how does that help me now?"

No, it was no more help to her than the dreadful paint with which she
plastered her haggard features.

It was not the least use to her....

Her death is the best thing that could have happened, for her own sake
and for those belonging to her. But I cannot take my thoughts off the
hours which preceded her end; the time that passed between the moment
when she decided to commit suicide until she actually carried out her
resolve.

* * * * *

"If men suspected ..."

It may safely be said that on the whole surface of the globe not one man
exists who really knows a woman.

They know us in the same way as the bees know the flowers; by the
various perfumes they impart to the honey. No more.

How could it be otherwise? If a woman took infinite pains to reveal
herself to a husband or a lover just as she really is, he would think
she was suffering from some incurable mental disease.

A few of us indicate our true natures in hysterical outbreaks, fits of
bitterness and suspicion; but this involuntary frankness is generally
discounted by some subtle deceit.

Do men and women ever tell each other the truth? How often does that
happen? More often than not, I think, they deal in half-lies, hiding
this, embroidering that, fact.

Between the sexes reigns an ineradicable hostility. It is concealed
because life has to be lived, because it is easier and more convenient
to keep it in the background; but it is always there, even in those
supreme moments when the sexes fulfil their highest destiny.

A woman who knows other women and understands them, could easily prove
this in so many words; and every woman who heard her--provided they were
alone--would confess she was right. But if a man should join in the
conversation, both women would stamp truth underfoot as though it were a
venomous reptile.

Men can be sincere both with themselves and others; but women cannot.
They are corrupted from birth. Later on, education, intercourse with
other women and finally marriage, corrupt them still more.

A woman may love a man more than her own life; may sacrifice her time,
her health, her e